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TML APOLOGY 



KI,fEW©AT tE STKEET. 



PLATO'S DIVINE DIALOGUES, 



TOGETHER WITH THE 



APOLOGY OF SOCEATES, 

Translated from the Original Greek, 



WITH 



INTRODUCTORY DISSERTATIONS AND NOTES; 



DISCOVERING THE SOURCE OF 



THE PLATONIC PHILOSOPHY, 

AND TRACING 



ITS ORIGIN TO THE INSPIRED WORD OF GOD. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DACIER. A.D. 1720. 



" There is no work that teaches so well as this, the art of confuting Sophists, 
who, by their poisonous maxims, labour to corrupt the minds of men, and destroy 
truth and even good sense. As there will always be such impostors, this art will 
always be of use, and no one teaches it like Plato. There is nothing more complete 
than his logic ; it is impossible for a man to defend himself from the force of it. 
It may be compared to the sun, which, when it rises, scarce makes us feel its 
heat, but gradually increases, so as to become too hot to be endured. 

I shall uot speak of the charms of his Dialogues, which are inexpressible: 
there are no satires or comedies that come near to them. We can no where find 
such sharpness of wit, so many graces, such decent turns of thought, or so much 
variety either of conception or expression : It is not so much an entertainment 
as an enchantment." — Dacier's Introductory Discourse. 



LONDON : 

S. CORNISH & CO., 126, NEWGATE STREET. 
1.839 



3 35? 

.13 3 

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I 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE 

ON THE 

WRITINGS OF PLATO. 



"What is every day seen to befal the noblest houses, 
whose great names are usurped by obscure families, has 
been the fate of philosophy. A great number of arts, 
which indeed may be of use in their places, but are 
worthy only to be the slaves of that science which can 
alone render our lives equally good and happy, have seized 
on this magnificent name, and made it contemptible in the 
eyes of men. We have no idea of a true philosopher, 
since this august title is lavishly bestowed on a sort of 
curious experimentalists, who, chained down to the earth, 
spend the whole of their lives in making experiments on 
the weight of the air, and the virtues of the loadstone. 
This name has been still more degraded, in being given to 
those, whose insatiable avarice chains them day and night 
to a furnace ; * as if gold, the greatest quantity of which 
is not comparable to the least virtue, were the end of phi- 
losophy. In fine, men are not content with having given 
it such blemishes as these, but have also rendered the 
name odious, in throwing it away on those libertines, who, 
by a pretended force oV esprit) which at bottom is no better 
than weakness and ignorance, live rather like beasts than 
men. Is it then to be wondered at, that philosophy is 
mistaken and neglected, and that men no longer pay her 
that respect and veneration, which she formerly excited in 
their minds ? Ashamed of being confounded with the 
daughters of the earth, she is reascended to heaven, from 
whence Socrates brought her. 

The Athenians heretofore by a public decree forbade that 
the names of Harmodius, and Aristogiton, who had deli- 

* Alehymists ; the object of whose vain research, was to convert 
the baser metals into gold. 

B 



9 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



vered their country from the tyranny of Hippias and Hip- 
parchus, should ever be given to slaves : for they thought 
it a horrible indignity, by so shameful a communication, 
to blast those names that were devoted to the public liberty. 
Philosophy is another deliverer, she triumphs over vices, 
overthrows impiety, and confounds the wisdom of the 
world. It is somewhat greater than the arts, and than what 
men commonly call the sciences ; it is the love of true 
wisdom, the knowledge of Divine and human things, that 
is to say, the science of God, a science which teaches us 
to know the relation which our souls necessarily bear to 
their Creator, and by and in him to all rational creatures, 
and which produces the certain knowledge of all our duties, 
toward God, our neighbours, and ourselves. 

To be truly a philosopher, is to have temperance, jus- 
tice, and fortitude, to love the truth, to avoid sensual plea- 
sures, to despise riches ; to weaken, as much as may be, 
the bands that fasten the soul to the body ; to hate and 
contemn this body, which is always opposing wisdom ; to 
renounce all our desires, to fear neither the poverty, nor 
shame, nor reproach we may be exposed to, for the sake of 
righteousness and truth ; to do good to mankind, even 
j> our very enemies ; to have nothing in view, but how to die 
well ; and for this end to renounce one's self and every 
thing else. This is the idea the wisest heathens had of 
philosophy. 

This being supposed, nothing can be more useful, than 
to follow the certain and visible progress which they made 
in their research after those truths, and to see to what de- 
gree of knowledge it pleased God to lead them. If we do 
not make such an examen this, we cannot speak of them 
with judgment, and without falling into a false account of 
things, as it has often happened, and still happens every 
day to the most learned men. Whenever they speak of the 
heathens, they bear witness against themselves that they 
never well read them, and that they have only an imperfect 
idea of them ; for they impute such sentiments to them as 
they never had, and deny them others which they had in 
reality ; which is a great piece of injustice : nay, it seems 
(if I may so speak) to diminish somewhat from the mercy 
and justice of God, not to acknowledge all the testimonies 
he was pleased to give of himself among the Pagans, in 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



3 



those times that were corrupted with the most abominable 
idolatry, in order to reduce them to the true religion. 

This negligence is the more blamable ; in that a man 
needs only to read Plato, to be perfectly informed of the 
extent of their knowledge ; for his writings have amassed 
together all the truths that were scattered up and down in 
the works of other philosophers ; and with the advantage 
of new discoveries of his own, they compose as it were a 
body of doctrine, which contains the highest perfection of 
knowledge to be found among the heathens. 

Let a man read ever so little of him with attention, and 
reflect upon what he teaches, and he will easily discern, 
that God, to stop the mouth of incredulity, was long since 
preparing the way for the conversion of the heathens, 
which had been so often predicted by the prophets : for 
was it not the work of God, and a kind of preludium of 
their conversion, that a heathen in the most idolatrous city 
in the world, and almost four hundred years before the 
light of the Gospel illuminated the universe, should declare 
and prove a good part of the truths of the Christian religion ! 

The circumstance of the time is remarkable, for Plato 
began to write immediately after the three last prophets 
that were in Israel. So that as soon as the prophets cease 
among the Jews, God raises up philosophers to enlighten 
the Gentiles; and divers of the principles of the Gospel are 
taught at Athens.* — Instance the following particulars : 

* Both Justin Martyr and Athenagoras believed that the Greek 
philosophers had a certain measure of inspiration, whereby they 
were enabled to arrive at those parts of their systems which are in 
accordance with the Scriptures. " One article of our faith/' says 
Justin Martyr, " is that Christ is the first begotten of God, and we 
have already proved him to be the very Logos, or universal reason 
of which makind are all partakers ; and therefore, those who live by 
reason are in some sort Christians, notwithstanding that they may 
pass with you for Atheists : such among the Greeks were Socrates, 
Heraclitus, and the like ; and such among the Barbarians were Abra- 
ham, and Ananias, and Azarias, and Misael, and Elias, &c. — So on 
the other side ; those who have lived in defiance of reason were un- 
christian and enemies to the Logos ; but they who make reason the 
rule of their actions are Christians/' (Reeves's translation of Justin 
Martyr, vol. 1. p. 83.)— So also Clement of Alexandria. " This phi- 
losophy they received from the fertilising influences of the Logos or 
Divine wisdom, which descended at the same time upon the Jews, 
giving them the law and the prophets : and upon the Gentiles, giving 
them philosophy, like the rain which falls upon the house tops, as 



4 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



" That there is but one God ; that we ought to love and 
serve him, and to endeavour to resemble him in holiness 
and righteousness ; that this God rewards humility, and 
punishes pride. 

That the true happiness of man consists in being 
united to God, and his only misery in being separated 
from him. 

That the soul is mere darkness, unless it be illuminated 
by God : that men are incapable even of praying well, 
unless God teaches them that prayer, which alone can be 
useful to them. 

That there is nothing solid and substantial but piety ; 
that this is the source of virtues, and that it is the gift of 
God. 

That it is better to die than to sin. 

That we ought continually to be learning to die, and 
yet to endure life, in obedience to God. 

That it is a crime to hurt our enemies, and to revenge 
ourselves for the injuries we have received. 

That it is better to suffer wrong than to do it. 

That God is the sole cause of good, and cannot be the 
cause of evil, which always proceeds only from our dis- 
obedience, and the ill use we make of our liberty. 

That self-love produces that discord and division which 
reign among men, and is the cause of their sins ; that the 
love of our neighbours, which proceeds from the love of 
God as its principle, produces that sacred union which 
makes families, republics, and kingdoms happy. 

That the world is nothing but corruption, that we ought 
to lly from it, to join ourselves to God, who alone is our 
health and life ; and that while we live in this world we 
are surrounded by enemies, and have a continual combat 
to endure, which requires on our part a resistance without 

well as in the fields." (1 Strom. §7.) In another place he argues 
thus : " All virtuous thoughts are imparted by divine inspiration ; 
and that cannot be evil, or of evil origin, which tends to produce good. 
The Greek philosophy has this virtuous tendency : therefore the 
Greek philosophy is good. Now God is the author of all good ; but 
the Greek philosophy is good : therefore the Greek philosophy is 
from God. It follows that the law was given to the Jews, and philo- 
sophy to the Greeks, until theadvent of our Lord." (6 Strom. $ 17.) 
where see more to the same purpose. Justin Martyr flourished 
A. D. HO, Athenagoras 170, St. Clement of Alexandria 190. 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



5 



intermission ; and that we cannot conquer unless God or 
angels come to our help. 

That the Word (Aoyog) formed the world, and rendered 
it visible ; that the knowledge of the Word makes us live 
very happily here below, and that thereby we obtain feli- 
city after death. 

That the soul is immortal, that the dead shall rise again, 
that there shall be a final judgment both of the righteous 
and of the wicked, when men shall appear only with their 
virtues or vices, which shall be the occasion of their eter- 
nal happiness or misery. 55 

But I forbear to proceed, that I may not repeat that 
here, which will be found elsewhere. Yet I cannot choose 
but add, that Plato had so great and true an idea of right- 
eousness, and was so thoroughly acquainted with the cor- 
ruption of mankind, that he makes it appear,* that if a 
man perfectly righteous should come upon earth, he would 
find so much opposition in the world, that he would be 
imprisoned, reviled, scourged, and in fine crucified by 
such, who, though they were extremely wicked, would yet 
pass for righteous men. Socrates was the first proof of 
this demonstration. For, as St. Justin says, the Devils 
seeing this philosopher made their nullity appear by the 
discovery of the truth, and that he endeavoured to reclaim 
men from giving them religious worship ; these malicious 
spirits so ordered the matter by means of men who were 
corrupt and took pleasure in vice, that this righteous man 
was put to death as if he had been an impious person, 
that lived without God in the world, and introduced new 
Gods. 

There are some who pretend the above-mentioned pas- 
sage of Plato is a prophecy, because the terms do not 
agree with the circumstances of Socrates, who was put to 
death only by a draught of poison, but precisely suit with 
those of the Saviour of the world, who was both scourged 
and crucified. 

But we shall not presume to make a prophet of our phi- 
losopher, from whom reason alone, when moved by the 
injustice of men, might extort such exaggerated expres- 
sions ; but shall content ourselves to inquire what there 

* In the second Book of his Commonwealth, Tom. 2. 

B.2 



6 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



may be in his writings conformable to the designs of God, 
who always desired the salvation of men, and often made 
use of the pagans for the execution of his eternal decrees. 

We understand by the Holy Scripture, which is the only 
lamp of truth, that natural religion was the first use men 
made of their reason; that lust and irregular passions 
having corrupted their reason, they abandoned themselves 
to the sacrilegious worship of idols ; and that God, to stop 
the course of this abomination, made himself known a 
second time, and gave the J ewish law ; which, as it revived 
in the minds of men the principles of the law of nature, so 
it promised a more sacred and perfect covenant which the 
righteous were to expect, and which alone was capable of 
triumphing over death; and so alone able to conduct men 
to a glorious immortality. 

Plato seems to have been acquainted with the Divine 
conduct in this matter, and to endeavour to reclaim the 
heathens by the same means. 

He endeavours to re-establish natural religion, by op- 
posing paganism, which was the corruption of it. 

He gives a law, which in its principal heads is entirely 
conformable to the tradition of the Hebrews, and the pre- 
cepts of Moses and the prophets; from whom he has bor- 
rowed that which is most rational and substantial in his 
works. 

And he supports this law by a great many principles 
more sublime than those of natural religion, and of the 
law of Moses; and by clear and express promises of spi- 
ritual and eternal blessings, which the Christian religion 
alone can make men enjoy, and which Moses and the pro- 
phets only promised under the veil, and figures of temporal 
enjoyments. So that Plato is not content to give a testi- 
mony only to natural religion, and the Jewish law, but also 
in some sort pays homage to Christianity; in piercing, by 
a supernatural light, into a part of those shadows and 
figures that covered it; and in proposing most of the 
greatest motives, and glorious objects, which it has always 
employed to raise men above themselves, and to maKe 
them masters of their passions. 

"A happy immortality (says he) is a great piize set 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. / 

before us, and a great object of hope, which should engage 
us to labour all the time of our life to acquire wisdom and 
virtue." This the reading only of this small volume will 
completely set in its true light. 

It is commonly inquired on this subject, how the books 
of Moses and those of the prophets could come to Plato's 
knowledge. I will not undertake to prove that there were 
Greek translations of them before that of the Septuagint ; 
it is too difficult a matter to support that supposition, and 
I must confess I can find no solid foundation for it. But 
I will declare what seems most probable to me. 

After the departure of the Israelites out of Egypt, they 
almost always continued their commerce with the Egyp- 
tians. They traded in their country, they sometimes de- 
sired their assistance against their enemies, and often en- 
tered into treaties and alliances with them. By these 
means the memory of all that had happened to their nation 
was easily preserved among those people. * The captivity 
of king Jehoachaz, whom Pharaoh Necho carried away pri- 
soner about the beginning of the forty-second Olympiad ; 
and f the dwelling of the prophets Jeremiah and Baruch 
m Egypt some years after with the miserable remainder of 
the Jews, that the king of Babylon had left in Judea, 
could not suffer the Egyptians to forget these things. 

About this time Pythagoras travelled into Egypt, from 
whence he brought those traditions into Greece ; his dis- 
ciples communicated them to Socrates, who acquainted 
Plato with them ; and he, to be more perfectly instructed 
in them, went to the same place, where he might see not 
only the grandchildren, but the children of such as had 
conversed with the fugitives that retired thither with 
those prophets. And, perhaps, it is no ill-founded suppo- 
sition, that by his frequent conversation with them he 
learned enough of their language to read those originals 
himself, of which the Egyptians, who were a very curious 
people, might have copies. But whether he read them, 
or knew nothing of them, but what he learned in conver- 
sation, it is certain he could draw that tradition, which he 
calls sacred, from no other source. For he harmonizes so 
well with those originals in many things, not only in re- 



* 2 Kings 23. 



t Jer. 43. 



8 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



spect of the truths themselves, but, moreover, in the very 
manner of his expressions, that one would often think he 
translates them. From whom, unless from the Hebrews, 
could the Egyptians have a tradition containing such won- 
derful doctrine, and of which never any other people had 
heard, before the peculiar people of God were instructed 
in it ? 

But it is said there are many errors intermixed with the 
writings of Plato ; that in his explication of the greatest 
truths, he is full of doubt and uncertainty ; and it is ob- 
served that Socrates constantly professes that he knows 
nothing : What advantage can be received from a man that 
knows nothing but his own ignorance ? And it is fit 
these objections should have an answer. 

It is certain Plato is not without his errors ; but when 
they come to be strictly examined, there are to be found 
in them some traces of ancient traditions and predictions 
of the prophets : and if these traces are compared with 
the doctrine of the Holy Scripture, one may discover the 
source of those errors, which by this means become one of 
the proofs of the truth of the Christian religion. For we 
must be forced to acknowledge that the heathens had a 
dim sight of divers great truths, which, because they were 
not to be fully unveiled till the coming of the Messiah, 
were involved in darkness too thick to be penetrated by 
their eyes. And this was predicted by the prophets, who 
all declared, Cf that Christ should be the light of the world." 
None but Jesus Christ was able to discover to them those 
mysteries, which were to be kept secret before his coming. 
Therefore it is no very surprising thing, that such persons 
as attempted to penetrate * those mysteries, only by the 
light of their reason, did evaporate into vain imaginations. 
And for this reason we ought not to pretend to give a 
clear explication of the truths of religion by the notions of 
this philosopher ; but, on the contrary, should explain his 
notions by these truths : this is the way to display light 
every where, and dissipate all errors. And when his prin- 
ciples accord well with these truths, we may with very 
good advantage make use of the proofs he has given of 
them. 

* Such as the doctrine of the Trinity, the Resurrection, the Fall of 
Man, and the Creation of the Souls of Men before their Bodies. 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



9 



The doubts and uncertainty of which he is reproached 
about the most essential points, are so far from shaking 
his principles, that they only give the greater confirmation 
to them ; and one may say that certainty and conviction 
spring from these very doubts. For instance, in his 
Phcedon, where he is treating of the great objects of our 
hope in the other life, he insinuates that it is a very diffi- 
cult matter certainly to know the truth of these things, 
while we live here ; and that how strong soever the proofs 
are, on which we may found an expectation of a happy 
eternity, the greatness of the subject and the natural infir- 
mities of man are inexhaustible springs of doubts and un- 
certainties; for these spring up in multitudes from the 
stock of corrupt nature, which opposes the most manifest 
truths, and resists the most evident proofs which reason 
can produce. What was to be done then to dissipate 
these doubts ? The prophets had spoken, but their oracles 
were yet obscure, and men might not discern in their words 
the Divine Spirit that animated them. It was necessary 
that God himself should speak. Nothing less than an ex- 
press promise, nothing less than a plain Divine Revelation 
could entirely disperse the clouds of ignorance and incre- 
dulity, and convert these doubts into certainties. This is 
what * Plato confesses in express terms. For he brings in 
some philosophers that render homage to God, calling his 
promises " the vessel in which no danger is to be feared, 
and the only one in which we can happily accomplish the 
voyage of this life, on a sea so tempestuous and full of 
rocks." Thus we see where his doubts terminated ; they 
led men to acknowledge the need they had of a God, to 
assure them of the reality of the great blessings for which 
they hoped. And this is accomplished in the Christian 
Religion ; which as it is the only religion that has God for 
its teacher, so has it also the promises of eternal happiness, » 
of which the prophets spake, and of which Plato had a 
glimpse ; and for which the word of this God, by the con- 

| fession even of these pagans, is a most certain security. 
So that, by the acknowledgment of the most enlightened 

j heathens, there are now no reasonable doubts concerning 
the truth of the Christian Religion ; that being the only 

* In his Phoedon, 



10 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



vessel in which we can never be lost. And this is what 
the prophets predicted, that in Jesus Christ, life and im- 
mortality should be brought to light, and that he should 
be the desire of nations. 

It is not only in these principal points that Plato doubts, 
but almost in every thing ; and his doubts have given 
occasion to many to make a wrong judgment of the 
Academic philosophy ; for it has been imagined that it 
asserted nothing, but accounted all things equally uncer- 
tain, which is a very unjust supposition. Socrates and 
Plato were not of the number of those philosophers, whose 
fluctuating minds kept them continually wandering, so 
that they had no fixed and steady principles. This was 
their principle and rule : They taught that men could not 
of themselves have any opinion but what was founded only 
on probabilities ; but that when God enlightened them, 
that which was no more than opinion before, now became 
science. And this they explained by a pretty comparison: 
Dedalus made two sorts of statues that could walk, with 
this difference, the one sort had a spring which stopped 
them when one pleased, and the other had none ; so that 
when they were let go, they run along to the end of their 
line, and could not be stopped. The latter were not of so 
great a price, but the former were very dear. Now Socrates 
and Plato compared opinion to these statues that could not 
be stopped ; for opinion is not stable, but is subject to change. 
But when it is restrained and fixed by reasoning drawn 
from causes which the Divine Light discovers to us, then 
opinion becomes science, and is fixed and steady, like 
those statues which had that governing spring added to 
them. So that their meaning was, that opinion turns only 
on probability, which is always like moving sand; but 
that science rests on certainty and truth, which are a firm 
foundation. Thus Socrates and Plato disputed about every 
thing, while they had only opinions ; but when these opi- 
nions, after serious researches and long labour, were be- 
come science by the Divine Light, then they affirmed what 
they knew. Till then all was doubtful and uncertain to 
them. But these doubts were more wise and safe than 
the arrogance of those positive philosophers, that rashly 
affirmed every thing, and always took opinion for science. 

The third objection against Socrates, "That he only 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



1 1 



knew that lie knew nothing," is no more solid than the 
former ; and is to be answered by the same principle : and 
if I am not mistaken we shall find in this ignorance a mar- 
vellous fond of knowledge. 

There are two sorts of ignorance, the one natural, which 
is good or evil, according to the good or ill use that is 
made of it ; and the other acquired, and always good : for 
this latter is the ignorance of those who after they have 
learned all that men can know, are convinced that they 
know nothing. This was Socrates' s ignorance, it was * a 
learned ignorance that knows itself. He had run through 
astronomy, geometry, physics, metaphysics, poetry, 
polite learning, &c, and saw the vanity of them. He even 
undertakes to prove that all these sciences are either use- 
less or dangerous, and that nothing but the knowledge of 
God can make us happy ; that where this divine science is 
not, there can be no good, and consequently that there is 
a sort of ignorance more useful than the sciences ; for this 
ignorance seeks not for knowledge in itself, well knowing it 
has none, but only in God who is pleased to fill its vacuum. 
It was for this reason Socrates always began his instruc- 
tions with an affirmation that he knew nothing. By this 
he signified that our souls have no true knowledge of any 
thing, any farther than they are enlightened by God : that 
they should always look on that piercing light, in which 
alone they can see light ; and that when they turn their 
looks another way, they necessarily fall back into obscu- 
rity, and produce nothing but the works of darkness. Let 
the proud wise men of the world appear, and compare 
themselves with this ignorant man. 

So much for one of the uses that maybe made of Plato's 
writings, which ought to be looked upon as so many titles 
belonging to Christianity, found long ago among the 
pagans, and are so much the more venerable, in that so 
much as is found in them is faithfully copied from those 
which the prophets have left us ; and in that which we 
find altered and corrupted, we may, however, discover the 
vestiges of those truths which irreproachable witnesses 
published. 

The second use that may be made of them, and which is 

* It is an expression of Socrates, which states two sorts of ignorance, 
one that is ignorant of itself, and the other that knows itself. 



12 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



no less considerable than the former, is that by this means 
we may be confirmed in the knowledge of a great many 
Christian truths, which are proved in them with such a 
strength and evidence, as no reasonable man can resist. 

Religion only proposes them ; for it belongs not to the 
majesty of a God to prove the necessity, justice, and truth 
of all he commands. He makes men love what he requires, 
and that is more than to prove it to be reasonable. But a 
philosopher, who has no authority over us, any further than 
he persuades us by his reasons, is obliged to give proofs of 
every thing he advances; and this Plato does, and his 
proofs cannot choose but be very agreeable to them that 
believe, and very useful to unbelievers, if they are but 
willing to attend a little to them for their instruction. 

Some learned and zealous person, who is well read in 
ecclesiastical history, will perhaps say, If Plato be so 
useful, whence come those thundering censures, which 
some of the fathers of the church, and, above all, St. 
Chrysostom, have let fly against him ? It would be a suf- 
ficient answer to this, should I only oppose to it those 
great praises which other fathers have given him, especi- 
ally St. Augustin. But is it to be imagined, that the same 
principles that charmed St. Augustin, were displeasing to 
St. Chrysostom? No, certainly: the Spirit of God is not 
divided, and truth always appears to those whom God is 
pleased to illuminate. I will therefore endeavour to shew 
from whence this difference of their sentiments proceeded. 

The philosophy of Plato was looked on two different 
ways, which have given occasion to two very opposite opi- 
nions concerning it. 

Christian philosophers looked upon it as a doctrine, 
which by its principles naturally led to the Christian 
religion. 

And pagan philosophers considered it as a doctrine, 
which contained morals as perfect as those of Christianity, 
and which might even take place of this holy religion. 

In the first respect it was worthy of all the encomiums 
that have been given it by the greatest doctors of the 
church, who came out of his school. 

And on the second account it deserved the greatest ana- 
thema. The defects of this philosophy could not be too 
much aggravated, nor could those naughty philosophers 
that valued themselves so much upon it, be too much 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



13 



abased; for the wisdom of the wise, and the knowledge of 
the learned, are no better than folly, if they lead us not to 
the knowledge of Jesus Christ. Plato himself, by his 
principles, would furnish us with arms, to oppose those of 
his admirers, that should be so senseless, as to take up 
with his opinions, and shut their eyes against the bright 
truths of religion. 

But this difference is now ceased : there are now none 
of those ignorant persons. Nobody is so blind to prefer, 
or even compare Plato and Socrates, I will not say to the 
evangelists or apostles, but to the meanest Christian, So 
that there is no danger in setting a value on those truths 
which are found in Plato, and in rendering them all the 
honour they deserve. They are not the less worthy of our 
respect because they proceed from the mouth of a heathen. 
Did not God take Balaam from among the Gentiles to com- 
municate his spirit to him ? "When we render homage to 
the truths foretold by that covetous and corrupt prophet, 
we do not honour the prophet, but Him by whom he was 
inspired. For, as St. Ambrose says, €C It is not the desert 
f>f him who prophesies, but the oracle of him who calls, 
and which the grace of God reveals." St. Ambr. Lib. 6, 
Epist. 37. The greater the darkness was that benighted 
those times, the more esteem we ought to have for Plato 
and Socrates, whom God seems to have chosen to be the 
first heralds of those great truths, and if I may venture to 
say it, the forerunners of St. Paul, in the most supersti- 
tious and idolatrous city in the world. It was the doctrine 
of these philosophers that had produced and cherished 
those sparks of knowledge which this great apostle found 
in the hearts of some of the Athenians, concerning the 
resurrection of the dead and the immortality of the soul. 

What respect we have for this doctrine, will turn to the 
glory of the Christian religion : for if the conformity of 
a part of Plato's opinions, with what is revealed to us in 
the Gospel, has so raised this philosopher s name, that he 
is caUed the "divine philosopher," what esteem and vene- 
ration do they deserve, whose minds and hearts are filled 
with all the truths of Christianity, and who are fed with 
the celestial doctrine, which our Lord Jesus Christ learned 
of God the Father, and came himself to teach us ? 

This conformity of Plato with the doctrines of the 
c 



14 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



Gospel, last year engaged a learned and pious ecclesiastic, 
to give a small extract of it, which was very well received 
by the public. This extract, which was made in the pa- 
lace, and under the eye of one of the best and most learned 
archbishops God has given his church, is a great eulogium 
on the doctrine of this philosopher. What greater appro- 
bation can it have, than that of a prelate, who so strongly 
adheres to the word of truth, and is so diligent in instruct- 
ing the people in it himself, as well as in causing others to 
instruct them ? 

Another great advantage to be gained out of Plato's 
writings, is, that a man may form his judgment by them ; 
and acquire that justness of mind, and accuracy of reason- 
ing, which are necessary in all conditions of life, in order 
to discern truth from error, that he may take the right 
side in all affairs that occur. For, the philosophy of So- 
crates is the source of good sense, as Horace* himself 
acknowledges. 

There is no work in the world that teaches so well as 
this, the art of confuting sophists, who, by their poison- 
ous maxims, labour to corrupt the minds of men, and to 
destroy truth and good sense. As there will always be 
such impostors to be found, this art will always be of 
very great use, and there is no man teaches it like Plato. 
There is nothing more complete than his logic, which in- 
fallibly gains its point in every thing it undertakes ; it is 
impossible for a man to defend himself from the force of 
it. It may be compared to the sun, which, when it rises, 
scarce makes us feel its heat, but gradually increases it, so 
that at length it becomes too hot to be endured. 

I shall not speak of the charms of his dialogues, which 
are inexpressible : there are no satires or comedies that 
come near them. We can no where find such sharpness 
of wit, so many graces, and decent turns of thought, nor 
so much variety either of conceptions, or expressions : 
nor were ironies ever so finely managed ; so that it is not 
so much an entertainment of reading as an enchantment. 

I have elsewhere sufficiently exposed to view the advan- 
tages of dialogue above all other ways of treating a subject. 
I shall here only add, that that which contributes most to 
render it so agreeable and useful, is that truth comes gra- 

* In Arte Poetic, v. 310. 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



15 



dually out of the bowels of the dispute ; just as when pic- 
tures are unrolled we see the persons represented rise up 
by degrees, till at last they appear in their full propor- 
tion : and there is nothing more agreeable to the mind 
than the springing up of truth after this manner, the in- 
sensible progress of which even leaves the soul time to be 
before-hand with it, and to foresee its appearance. Now 
a truth which our minds have as it were divined, pleases 
us much more than that which has been formally proved 
to us, which most commonly only irritates and makes us 
uneasy. 

These dialogues have been the admiration of all ages : 
in the reign of Trajan they were still so much esteemed at 
Rome, that they occasioned the introducing of a custom 
which was received with great applause ; they used to 
choose the finest of these dialogues, and make their chil- 
dren learn them by heart, that so they might at their 
feasts recite them at table, with those different tones and 
gestures that were suitable to the manners and characters 
of the different persons whom Plato brings in speaking. 

It is true, this custom lasted not long ; but that which 
put an end to it was no less honourable than that which 
introduced it. For the philosophers that condemned and 
abolished it, did so only because they accounted Plato too 
sublime to be so used, and because they could not endure 
that dialogues so serious and solid should serve for a diver- 
tisement at table, and be heard amidst the merriment, 
noise and tumult of a feast. And this sentiment of theirs 
was supported by the authority of Plato himself, who, in 
his Banquet, being to speak of the end of man, of the sove- 
reign good, and other theological matters, does not push 
on his demonstration very far ; he does not, according to 
his ordinary custom, imitate a vigorous wrestler, who 
never lets go his hold, and who locks his adversary so 
closely that he cannot escape him ; but he softens his 
proofs and makes them pleasant, and attracts his auditors 
by the insinuation of fables and examples, which seem to be 
contrived not so much to convince as to divert them. For 
no questions ought to be started at table but such as may 
move the soul after an agreeable and useful manner, and 
such as every one may easily understand ; and those ought 
to be banished (to use the words of Democritus) that are 



16 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



thorny, and out of which it is difficult to extricate one's 
self. The discourse at table ought to be for every one, 
like the wine ; and such as propose there abstracted and 
difficult questions, banish thence this kind of community, 
and renew the feast of the fox and the crane. 

If I had only considered the eloquence, the strength and 
harmony of these writings, I confess I should never have 
had the courage to translate them ; in doing which, either 
through my own defect, or that of the language in which I 
write, I have had the uneasiness of finding myself unable 
to preserve a multitude of beauties and elegancies that ren- 
der these dialogues masterpieces, not to be equalled. But 
I considered, that seeing they contained matters of so 
great importance and necessity, it would be a great piece 
of folly, to be so superstitious about terms as to deprive 
mankind of so great an advantage. And by good hap, that 
which is the most useful cannot be hurt by my translation. 
It preserves the art of logic, and all the truth which So- 
crates proves by that means, and that is enough. Those 
beauties which consist only in expression are not so ne- 
cessary, and we may easily forego them, provided we 
enjoy others ; and not do like a certain writer of the last 
age, who, after he had made many good reflections on So- 
crates, and had acknowledged him to be an admirable pat- 
tern in all great qualities, amuses and perplexes himself 
with trouble, that a soul so lovely had met with a body so 
deformed, and disagreeable to its beauty. Which is as if 
a soldier, in reading the great actions of Caesar or Alex- 
ander, instead of taking advantage of his reading, and 
learning the art of war, should distress and afflict his mind, 
because one was bald, and the other inclined his head on 
one side. 

But it may be I have less reason to fear how it will go 
with my translation, than how Socrates himself will escape. 
Our age so much resembles that wherein this philosopher 
lived, that in all appearance, if this wise man now finds 
some intelligent judges who will do him justice, he will 
find a greater number of persons extremely prejudiced, 
who will be sure to condemn him. In an age wherein no- 
thing is esteemed but riches ; wherein that slavery, which 
leads to wealth, is preferred to liberty, and men choose 
rather to nourish the vices of others by their flatteries, 



A DISCOURSE ON Pl^ATO. 



17 



than to augment their own virtues by their labour ; the 
temperance, frugality, fortitude, justice and liberty of 
Socrates will be laughed at ; and this will be but the 
accomplishment of what he predicted : * " If my fellow- 
citizens (says he) have not been able to endure my maxims, 
much less will they be tolerable to strangers." 

The greatest part will not give themselves so much 
trouble as to read him. f They will much sooner read the 
Milesian fables, as St. Jerom says ; that is, such pieces as 
corrupt the heart and mind, than dialogues which inspire 
nothing but wisdom. And among those that will read 
him, many will do it out of curiosity ; for in our time we 
may make the same complaint that was made heretofore 
by Taurus, the philosopher, an ancient commentator on 
Plato. One asks for " Plato's Dialogue of the Banquet," 
to have the pleasure of seeing the excesses of Alcibiades. 
Another for his i( Phaedrus," because it is a treatise of cri- 
ticism, and the oration of Lysias is examined in it ; and 
others desire those dialogues which have the greatest 
reputation, and are accounted the best penned, only for 
a frivolous pleasure : and not one of all these thinks of 
embellishing his mind by reading of these books, so as to 
become more modest, temperate, just, patient, and pious. 

But those who will prove the least favourable to Socrates, 
are a sort of men who highly value themselves upon their 
refined wit ; and a great many of those who are taken 
with the pomp and gay appearances of the world. 

The former not having eyes piercing enough to discover 
the secret light of those hidden beauties that adorn these 
dialogues, will count Socrates a dull and languid author, 
because he has no witticisms, nor genteel turns. An 
obscure person who never did anything worthy to be read, 
shall call in question the reputation of Socrates, a person 
who has been an honour to human nature by the excel- 
lency of his understanding ; and shall prefer himself to 
him, trampling under his feet % "the testimonies which all 
the learned men of antiquity, and all Greece have rendered 
him, that for good sense, wit, pleasantness, subtilty, 

* Apology 69. 

* Moltoqne pars major est Milesias Fabulas revolventiuin, quam 
Platonis Libros. St. Jerom in the Preface of his 12th book on Isaiah. 

| Cicero in his 3rd Book of Oratory. 

c 2 



18 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



st reiigth, variety and abundance, hs excelled all that ever 
had appeared in the world." A man must, indeed, have a 
high opinion of himself, to appeal from so solemn a judg- 
ment, and to make his appeal to himself too. 

The latter are commonly corrupted by reading frivolous 
books, which are wholly composed for ostentation, and, as 
Montagne says, cannot perceive riches unless they make a 
pompous show, and so have a disgust for every thing that 
is plain and simple ; being persuaded that what is natural 
and easy, is akin to dulness and stupidity. These will 
think it below them to attend to a philosopher who enter- 
tains them only with such discourses as they count vulgar 
and trivial, who is scaice ever to be found out of shops ; 
who talks only of husbandmen, smiths, masons, carpenters, 
shoemakers, and tailors, and is eternally hammering on the 
same subjects, and representing the same images. 

There are not wanting good reasons to prove to them, 
that as a man sometimes is thought plump and in good 
case, when he is only swelled and bloated ; so that which 
is frequently taken for accuracy of judgment, is the effect 
of some distemper, and not at all the mark of a nice and 
fine relish. The highest and most sublime conceptions are 
often hid under a form that appears vile and contemptible. 
Are not the most celestial truths proposed to us in the 
Gospel under popular images and modes of expression, like 
those used by Socrates ? That which creeps on the earth, 
is no less capable than that which is raised to the heavens, 
of serving for a representation to let the greatest secrets, 
both of nature and grace, into our understanding. Nay, 
many times the most simple and common ideas, are the 
most proper to impress truth on the minds of men ; for 
besides that these are more proportionate to us, they do 
not transport us out of ourselves, as the most magnificent 
ideas do. If none but great and dazzling images could 
strike us, God would not have failed to have constantly 
employed them ; and since it is no more difficult for him 
to change men than to illuminate them, he would have 
been so far from making his Spirit stoop to the manners 
and customs of those whom he inspired, that, on the con- 
trary, he would have transformed their manners and cus- 
toms, to subject them in some sort to his Spirit ; and yet 
he did not do this. When he inspires Daniel, he leaves 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



19 



him to speak like a man educated in a royal court, he uses 
only great and magnificent ideas ; and when he inspires a 
shepherd, such a one as Amos, he leaves him to explain 
himself hy such terms as were most familiar to him : but 
the truth is every where equally sublime, and as it receives 
no accession to its lustre by the majesty of figures, so nei- 
ther does it lose anything of its glory by their simplicity, 
Socrates was so well persuaded, that this simplicity was 
alone capable to move and correct the minds of men, that 
when Critias, the most cruel of the thirty tyrants, com- 
manded him to let all the artificers alone, and talk no more 
of them, he answered ; * "I must then let all those con- 
sequences alone too, which I draw from them, and must 
speak no more, either of holiness or justice, or any other 
duties that become a good man," 

But, perhaps, our censors will have less deference for 
the authority of reasons, than for that of examples; it is 
therefore necessary to give them an account of what passed 
in the time of Socrates himself ; and to shew them the 
characters, both of his friends and enemies. 

On the one side were the most stupid and most corrupt 
among the people, some of whom, through ignorance, 
laughed at his morality, and the manner of his behaviour : 
others, through the corruption of their hearts, could not 
endure his generous liberty. 

On the other side, persons of the greatest honour, and 
of chief note in the commonwealth, Pericles, Nicias, 
Xenophon, Apollodorus, Criton, Critobuhis, JEschines, 
Antisthenes, kc. These found infinite charms in his con- 
versation. Who is it that is ignorant of Alcibiades ! Xo 
man had more wit, or a truer gust of things ; he was one 
of the best made, bravest, most gallant, most magnificent, 
most ambitious, and nicest men in the world ; he was at 
the head of the Athenians, he commanded their armies, he 
had von several battles, he had glittered in the courts of 
kings, and had not been rudely treated by queens. Ac- 
cording to the maxims of the world, there is nothing more 
bright and illustrious than such a man as this. Yet this 
same Alcibiades, amidst ah this glory and pomp, is so far 
from being offended at Socrates' way and manner of de- 



* Xenoph. in the 1st book of the Memorable Things of Socrates. 



20 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



portment, which were so opposite to his own, that he no 
sooner became acquainted with him, but he was struck 
with such a sense of his merit, and the solid gracefulness 
oi his conversation, that he knew not how to leave him ; 
he was enchanted with his discourses, which he preferred 
to the most excellent music ; * he confesses, that a man 
could neither hear him speak, nor even hear others repeat 
what he had said, without being transported. The force 
and truth of his words drew tears from him, and made 
him even leap for joy. He compared him to certain 
statues of Satyrs and Sdenes, which were made to open 
and shut : to look on the outside of them, nothing was 
more ugly ; but when they were 1 opened, all the deities 
were found in them together. He hardly loved or respected 
any one besides him, and he never met with him, but he 
took off from his own head the crown, which he, according 
to custom, wore on days of ceremony, and put it on the 
head of Socrates. 

Therefore there is no medium, we must jndge of Socrates, 
either as the worst and meanest of the Athenians did, or 
like Pericles and Alcibiades : We may make our choice. 

All these contradictions which I have foreseen, and 
which indeed may make these Dialogues become to the 
greatest part of readers f "like those exquisite dainties 
that were formerly set on tombs/' have not discouraged 
me, but only convinced me that a hare translation, though 
ever so exact and faithful, would not make a sufficient 
impression on the minds of some men, if it were not 
supported by something, that might prevent all these 
inconveniences, or, at least, a good part of them ; and I 
could think but of two ways to succeed in this. 

The first was, to place an argument at the head of every 
dialogue, to explain the subject of it, to unfold the art and 
method of it, and to take particular notice of every tiling 
in it of the greatest importance. The arguments of Mar- 
silius Ficinus do not go to the matter of fact ; besides, 
they are too abstracted, and are abundantly more difficult 
to be understood than the dialogues themselves. And 
those of De Serres are too wide and indefinite, they never 

* In the Dialogue of the Banquet. 

+ Quasi oppositiones Epularum circumpositoe Sepulchro. Eccle- 
siastic. 30. 18. 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO. 



21 



well fix the state of the question, or the quality of the 
proofs ; nor do they ever explain either Plato's design, or 
his address. Now an argument ought to be a faithful 
guide always to attend the reader, to conduct him where- 
ever he goes, and always to set him into the right path. 

The second way was to make remarks to elucidate the 
principal difficulties, to render the hidden beauties discern- 
ible, to explain the train of reasoning, and the solidity of 
the principles and proofs, and to help to discover what is 
false, from that which is true. 

Marsilius Ficinus did not so much as think of this ; De 
Serres, on this account, is more useful than he ; for by 
his marginal notes he at least hinders you from losing the 
thread of Plato 5 s reasoning, and makes you comprehend the 
train and progress of his proofs : but yet he abandons 
you in the greatest difficulties. 

In the time of Maximus Tyrius, that is, in the second 
age, it was very earnestly desired, that some one would 
undertake to elucidate those obscure and knotty passages 
of Plato ; above all, in what respects his opinions in theo- 
logy: and many philosophers laboured in this work, as 
may be seen in his life ; but with so little success, that 
instead of resolving the difficulties, they have increased 
them. They have scarce assisted me once or twice in all 
the dialogues which I have translated ; and they would 
very often have led me into mistakes, if I would have fol- 
lowed them. 

The cause of their errors was, that they did not draw 
from the true fountain, and had a mind to explain Plato by 
Aristotle's principles, which are very different from those 
of Plato. The latter is most commonly conformable to 
sound theology, or may be very easily reduced to it by his 
own principles well explained : but it is otherwise with his 
disciple ; and where Plato may be once corrected by Aris- 
totle, Aristotle may be corrected a hundred times by Plato. 

I do not presume so much on my own ability, as to 
think I have filled up all the devoirs of a good interpreter ; 
without doubt some difficulties will yet be found in that 
which I have translated, but perhaps all of them ought 
not to be imputed to me. Obscurities ordinarily arise 
from three causes, from the sublimity of the subject, from 
the ignorance of the interpreter, and from the incapacity 



22 



A DISCOURSE ON PLATO, 



or inattention of the reader. It will be reasonable for the 
reader to accuse me of some of them ; but let him also 
sometimes accuse either the subject or himself : if this 
conduct be observed, I may venture to hope for the dimi- 
nution of these difficulties. 

I might here have a fair occasion to answer the invec- 
tives that have been made against Plato in our time, but 
since they come only from such persons as never read so 
much as one of his Dialogues ; perhaps they will change 
their sentiments when once they have read him. Besides, 
it is wasting one's time to defend Plato ; for he sufficiently 
defends himself : and that may be said of him with yet 
more justice, which the greatest of the Latin historians 
said of Cato, equally ridiculing the praises Cicero had given 
him, and the satires Caesar had made on him ; * "IVone 
could ever augment the glory of this great man by his 
praises, nor diminish it by his satires." 

* Cujus glorise neque profuit quisquam laudando, nec vituperando 
quisquam nocuit. Titus Livius. 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES: 

OR, 

OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

In this Dialogue, which is entitled, " Of the Nature of Max," 
Plato attempts to cure our pride and self-love, by setting the infirmi- 
ties and defects of human nature in the clearest light ; and by pre- 
scribing the means which ought to be used to reform it, with the care 
we ought to take of ourselves. The matter in question, therefore, is to 
know what we ourselves are ; and that part of the Dialogue which treats 
of this, appears little less than divine. For here Plato teaches that 
man is the reasonable soul, which participates of understanding, and 
makes use of the body. The soul, as reasonable, makes use of her 
reason to reflect on herself, and to know her own necessities : as she 
participates of understanding, she makes use of this to raise her up 
toward God, and to know herself in that resplendent light, in which 
only we can be able perfectly to view ourselves ; and to know what is 
good, profitable, lovely, just ; in a word, the true Good, of which 
that is the fountain : and it is this knowledge alone that sets us right; 
and which, by directing our actions, renders them useful both to our- 
selves and others. But that it may not be thought that it absolutely 
depends on us to acquire this perfection, he assures us, that all our 
efforts will be useless without the assistance of God. We shall find 
here, besides this, other truths as surprising in a pagan : for instance, 
that which he says of the two sorts of ignorance, one of which is good, 
and the other evil : and what he teaches us concerning particular 
things, that the knowledge of these is not sufficient to produce the 
peace and union of states and families ; and that we have need of the 
knowledge of universal things, which alone produces charity, the 
mother of union. It is not necessary here to set off all the beauties 
of this Dialogue. I shall only remark, in general, that all these Dia- 
logues are as so many pieces of the theatre : comedy reigns in some 
of them, and tragedy in others. This is of the latter kind, and in 
some sort resembles Sophocles's (Edipus. For, as in that piece, we 
see a prince who, from the highest pinnacle of grandeur, and after he 
had been looked upon as a god, falls into a most deplorable state of 



24 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES ; OR, 



misery : we here, in like manner, see Alcibiades, after having been 
counted worthy of the greatest honours, obliged to acknowledge, that 
he deserves only to be a slave. They who are shocked at the passionate 
manner in which Socrates speaks to Alcibiades at the beginning of 
this Dialogue, will cease to be offended when they have read it out ; 
for they will then see it is a very innocent passion, designed only for 
the advancement of virtue. Young people would be very happy, if 
they always found friends that loved them as truly and piously as 
Socrates loved Alcibiades : for, as Plutarch says, " He did not seek 
with him an effeminate pleasure unworthy of a man, but cured the 
corruptions of his soul, filled the void of his mind, and repressed his 
extravagant vanity." He endeavoured to lead him out of darkness, 
and conduct him to the true light. It is not difficult to fix the time 
in which Plato supposes this Dialogue to have been made, since he 
tells us Alcibiades was then in the 20th year of his age ; it must 
have been, therefore, in the third year of the eighty-seventh Olym- 
piad, one year before the death of Pericles. 

This Dialogue is /xaievTLKog ; that is, Socrates so manages the 
matter, as to make Alcibiades of himself find out the truths which he 
has a mind to teach him. 



SOCRATES, ALCIBIADES. 

Socrates. 0 son of Clinias, you are without doubt surprised, 
that since I was the first that followed you, I should also 
be the last ; and that whereas others have pursued you with 
their importunities, I have been so many years without 
speaKing to you. It is no human consideration that has 
retained me, but a regard altogether * divine ; which I 
will explain to you hereafter. At present, while that God 
who conducts me lays me under no restraint, I make use 
of the permission he gives me to accost you ; and I hope 
our conversation for the time to come will not be disagree- 
able to him. I have hitherto observed in what way you 
have conducted yourself towards my rivals : among that 
great number of proud and haughty men who have ad- 
hered to you, there is not one whom you have not shocked 

* [A regard altogether divine.] He means he was not willing to 
speak to him without the permission of God, under whose conduct he 
is ; and that God would not suffer him to speak during the great ten- 
derness of Alcibiades' youth, which would have rendered all his 
instructions useless. See the argument of the apology about the 
Genius that conducted Soci ates. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



25 



by your lofty carriage. And I am now willing to tell you 
the cause of the contempt you have had for them. You 
think you have no need of any man ; so liberally has 
nature, as you suppose, indulged you with all the goods 
both of body and mind. First of all, * you think yourself 
to be one of the finest and best made men in the world : 
and in this it is probable you are not mistaken. In the 
second place, you are sensible of the advantage of f your 
birth ; for you are of the most illustrious house of Athens, 
which is the most considerable of al] the cities of Greece. 
On your father's side, you have a great many powerful 
relations and friends to support you on all occasions. You 
have no less number, nor less considerable in quality, on 
your mother's side. And that which you think yet more 
augments your reputation, is, that your father left you 
Pericles for your guardian ; whose authority is so great, 
that he does what he pleases not only in this city, but 
likewise in all Greece, and among the most powerful of the 
barbarous nations. I might also speak of your riches, if I 
did not know that these are the least occasion of your 
vanity. J All these great advantages have inspired you 
with so much pride, that you have despised all your ad- 
mirers as so many inferiors, not worthy of attention. 
Accordingly they have all left you, and you have very well 
observed it ; therefore I am very sure you cannot suffi- 
ciently wonder what reasons I can have to continue in my 
former passion ; and are considering what hope I can 
have yet to follow you, after all my rivals have retired. 

Alcibiades. But one thing which without doubt you do 
not know, Socrates, is, that you have prevented me but a 
moment, and that I designed to speak to you first, to ask 
the reason of your obstinacy. "What do you mean ? or what 

* Plutarch reports that the beauty of Alcibiades kept in a florid 
state through all the ages of his life ; and that the saying of Euripides 
that the autumn of handsome men is gay, was verified in him. 

t On the side of his father Clinias, he descended from Eurysaces, 
the son of Ajax , and on the side of his mother, Dinomaehe, he was 
Alcmeeonides, and descended from Megacles. 

% The most noted and strongest passions Alcibiades had, were a 
boundless vanity, which made him endeavour to carry all before him 
with an air of haughtiness, and an unlimited ambition, which made 
either a superior, or equal, always seem intolerable to him : this made 
Archestratus say, Greece could not bear two Alcibiades's. Plutur. 

D 



26 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



is it you hope for, that you trouble me after this manner, 
using your utmost diligence continually to attend me in 
every place whither I go ? For, in fine, I cannot enough 
wonder at your deportment ; and you will do me a plea- 
sure to tell me once for all, to what you pretend. 

Socrat. That is, you will freely hear me, seeing you have 
a mind to know my thoughts. I shall therefore now speak 
to you, as to one who will have patience to hear me, and 
will not take occasion to get away from me. 

Alcib. Yes, you may. 

Socrat. Consider well to what you engage yourself ; that 
you may not be surprised, if I find it as hard for me to 
make an end, as it has been to begin. 

Alcib. Speak, Socrates ; I will give you as much time 
as you please. 

Socrat. Well, then, I will obey you ; and though it be 
a very difficult thing for a man to speak to a person he 
loves, who yet does not love him, I must take the courage 
to tell you my thoughts. For my part, Alcibiades, if I had 
always seen you devoted to your vanity and grandeur, and 
in the design of living, as you have hitherto done in your 
luxury and softness, I should also have long ago renounced 
and forsaken you ; at least, I flatter myself that I should 
have done so. But now I am going to discover to you 
your own thoughts, which are very different from those 
you have had formerly ; and by this you will know that 
the reason of my obstinate persisting in following you up 
and down, was, to study you. I am ready to think, that 
if some God should all on a sudden say to you, Alcibiades, 
would you rather choose to live with all the advantages 
you have at present, or to die ; if you were withal forbid- 
den to aspire to the possession of yet greater for the future : 
I am ready to think, I say, that you would choose to die. 
So that this appears to be the hope with which you flatter 
yourself, and which makes you in love with life. You are 
persuaded, that you shall have no sooner harangued the 
Athenians, and that will be within a very little time, but 
you will make them sensible you deserve to be honoured 
more than Pericles, or any of our greatest citizens ; that 
you shall soon be master of this city ; and that your power 
shall extend over all the cities of Greece, and over the bar- 
barous nations that inhabit our continent. And if this 



OF THE NATURE OF MAX. 



27 



God should farther say, Alcibiades, you shall be king of 
all Europe, but you shall not extend your dominion over 
the provinces of Asia ; I believe you would not be willing 
to live for so small an empire, unless you could fill the 
whole world with the noise of your fame. You esteem 
none but Cyrus and Xerxes : and as you are charmed with 
their glory, you propose them as patterns for your imita- 
tion. These are the views you have. I know it, and it is 
not mere conjecture. You very well know I say nothing 
but the truth ; and therefore, perhaps, you will ask me: 
What respect, Socrates, has this preamble of yours to that 
you had a mind to say, to explain to me the reasons you 
have to follow me everywhere I I will immediately satisfy 
you of that, 0 son of Clinias. It is because the * great 
projects you form in your head can never be put in execu- 
tion without my assistance ; so much power have I over 
all your affairs, and over yourself too. And hence it is, 
without doubt, that the God who governs me, has never 
suffered me to speak to you till now, and I have been long 
waiting for his permission. Xow, therefore, as you hope 
that when you have convinced your fellow-citizens that 
you are worthy of the greatest honours, they will make 
you master of then 1 fortunes ; I also hope you will make 
me master of your conduct, when I have convinced you, 
that I am more worthy of this honour than any other 
person, and that you have neither guardian, friend, nor 
brother, that can give you that great power to which you 
aspire : there is none but I who can do it, with the help 
of God. While you were younger, and had this great am- 
bition, God was not pleased to suffer me to speak to you, 
that my words might not be thrown away. Now he gives 
me leave to break silence ; and you are indeed in a better 
disposition to hear me. 

Alcih, I confess, Socrates, r you seem to me a more 
strange person since you have begun to speak, than while 
you were silent ; though, indeed, I have always taken you 
for an odd sort of a man. It seems, then, you know my 

* The designs of the ambitious cannot succeed but by the counsels 
of the wise. 

t The wisdom of Socrates could not but seem mere folly to Alcibi- 
ades, especially while Socrates promises him such great things, which 
he could not tell how to comprehend. 



28 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



thoughts perfectly well ; so let it be : if I should tell you 
the contrary, I should have enough to do to convince you. 
Yet I pray tell me, how you will be able to prove that with 
your assistance, I shall effect the great things I am pro- 
jecting, and that I can do nothing without you? 

Socrat. Do you ask me if I am capable of making a long 
discourse, * as they do whom you are wont to hear ? You 
know that is not my manner. But if you would (though 
ever so little) comply with my way, I will do all I can to - 
convince you, that I have advanced nothing but what is true. 

Alcib. I am willing to comply with it, provided it be not 
very difficult. 

Socrat. Is it so difficult a matter to answer a few ques- 
tions ? 

Alcib. No ; if that be all, I am willing to do it. 
Socrat. Answer me then. 

Alcib. Well, interrogate me as soon as you please. 

Socrat. May we not suppose that you have always those 
great thoughts which I have attributed to you ? 

Alcib. I agree to it : I shall at least have the satisfac- 
tion of hearing what you have to say to me. 

Socrat. I believe I am not mistaken ; you are preparing 
to go in a few days to the assembly of the Athenians, to 
make them participate of the knowledge and skill you 
have acquired. And if I should meet you at that instant, 
and ask you, Alcibiades, what are the matters about which 
you are going to advise the Athenians ? Are they not 
such things as you know better than they ? What would 
you answer me ? 

Alcib. Without doubt, I should answer, it is about such 
things as I know better than they. 

Socrat. For you would not know how to give good 
counsel but in matters that you know. 

Alcib. How should any one give it in other things ? 

Socrat. And is it not certain, that you know nothing 
but what you have either learned of others, or what you 
have found out yourself? 

Alcib. What can one know otherwise ? 

Socrat. But have you learned anything of others, or 

* He reproaches him for abusing himself too much in hearing the 
long discourses of the sophists. For Alcibiades pretended much to 
eloquence, which made him so much relish those studied discourses. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



29 



found out anything yourself, when you have neither been 
willing to learn nor search into anything ? 
Alcib. That cannot be. 

Socrat. Have you ever thought it worth your while to 
endeavour to find out, or learn, what you believed you 
already understood ? 

Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. There was a time then, in which you thought 
yourself ignorant of what you now know ? 
Alcib. That is very true. 

Socrat. But I pretty well know what are the things you 
have learned. If I forget any one of them, mention it to 
me. You have learned (if my memory do not deceive me) 
to read and write, to play on the harp, and to wrestle : 
but as for the flute, * you did not value it. This is all you 
understand, unless you have learned some other thing that 
I never knew of. And yet f I do not think you have gone 
abroad either day or night, but I have been a witness to 
the steps you have taken. 

Alcib. It is very true, these are the only things I have 
learned. 

Socrat. Will you then, when the Athenians enter into 
a deliberation about writing, to know how that art ought 
to be practised, rise up to give them your advice ? 

Alcib. No, surely. 

Socrat. Shall it be when they consult about the different 
tunes in music ? 

Alcib. A fine consultation indeed ! 

Socrat. Nor are the Athenians used to deliberate on the 
various turns used in wrestling ? 

Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. What is it then you expect they will consider, 
wherein vou mav give them advice ? It must not be about 
the manner of building a house neither ; the meanest 

* He looked upon it as an ignoble instrument, and unworthy of the 
application of a freeman. But the principal cause of tins aversion 
was, because it spoiled the graceful air of his countenance. 

t Alcibiades was besieged night and day by a corrupt sort of men, 
who made it their constant endeavour to seduce Mm. But Socrates, 
like a good father, kept him always in his sight, to secure him from 
all those dangers, well knowing that none but himself was capable of 
preserving him from so great perils. 

D 3 



30 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES ; OR, 



bricklayer would be able to advise them how to do that 
better than you. 

Alcib. He would so. 

Socrat. Nor must it be about any point of divination, 
you are not so well acquainted with that business as every 
diviner is, let him be small or great, handsome or ugly, of 
high or low birth. 

Alcib. What does all that signify ? 

Socrat. Nor is it any matter whether he be rich or poor, 
for good counsel proceeds from knowledge, and not from 
riches. 

Alcib. That is easily granted. 

Socrat. And if the Athenians should take into conside- 
ration the ways and means oi recovering their health ; do 
you think they would not send for a physician to consult 
him, without giving themselves any further trouble ? 

Alcib. No doubt of it. 

Socrat. When is it then, do you think, that you will rise 
up with any colour of reason to give them good advice ? 

Alcib. When they deliberate on their affairs . 

Socrat. What, when they consult about the building of 
ships ; to know what sort of vessels they should make? 

Alcib. No, not that. 

Socrat. For you never learned to build ships ; that is 
the reason, I suppose, you will not speak of that matter ; 
is it not ? 

Alcib. To be sure, I will say nothing on that subject. 

Socrat. When is it, then, that their affairs will be so 
deliberated, that you will put in for a speech ? 

Alcib. When they have before them the business of peace 
and war, or any other thing belonging to government. 

Socrat. You mean, when they consider with what nations 
it is proper for them to make war or peace ; and when and 
how it ought to be made ? 

Alcib. You hit it. 

Socrat. Peace or war ought to be made with those na- 
tions with whom it is best to make either one or the other ; 
and when the best occasion offers, and also after the best 
manner ; and as long as it continues to be best. 

Alcib. True. 

Socrat. If the Athenians should consult with what 
wrestlers it is best to take the lock, and what others it is 



OS THE NATURE OF MAN. 



31 



best to deal with * at arms-end without closing in to them, 
and when and how these different exercises ought to be 
performed, should you give better advice in these matters 
than the master of the wrestling ground ? 

Alcih. No question but he would give the best counsel 
in this case. 

Socrat. Can you tell me what this wrestling-master 
would principally regard in giving instructions, with 
whom, when, and how, these different exercises ought to 
be performed ? Would he not have respect only to what 
is best ? 

Alcih. Without doubt, he would. 

Socrat. Then he would order them to be performed as 
often as it should be best so to do ; and on such occasions 
as should be most proper. 

Alcih. Very true. 

Socrat. He that sings ought sometimes to join his voice 
with the harp ; and sometimes to dance as he plays and 
sings, and in all this he should conduct himself by what is 
best? 

Alcih. That is most certain. 

Socrat. Seeing then there is a best in singing, and in 
playing on instruments, as well as in wrestling, how will 
you call this best ? For, as for that of wrestling, all the 
world calls it the most gymnastic. 

Alcih. I do not understand you. 

Socrat. Endeavour to follow me ; for my part I should 
answer, that this best is that which is always the best ; 
and is not that which is always the best, that which is 
most according to the rules of the art itself ? 

Alcih. You have reason. 

Socrat. What is this art or wrestling ? Is it not the 
gymnastic art ? 
Alcih. Yes. 

Socrat. What I have been saying, is, that which is best 
in the art of wrestling, is called the most gymnastic. 
Alcih. This is what you have already said. 
Socrat. And this is right. 
Alcih. Very right. 

* It is a kind of wrestling Hippocrates speaks of in his 11th book 
of Diet. Chap. 11. To wrestle only with the arms without taking 
hold ot the body, makes one leasi, and draws the flesh upward. 



32 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



Socrat. Come, then, do you also endeavour to give me 
a right answer. How do you call that art, which teaches 
to sing, to play on the harp, and to dance well ? Can't 
you tell me that ? 

Alcib. No indeed, Socrates. 

Socrat. Try if you cannot hit on it in this way. How 
do you call the goddesses that preside over this art ? 
Alcib. You mean the Muses. 

Socrat. Very well. Let us see what name this art has 
derived from them. 

Alcib, 0, it is music ycu speak of. 

Socrat. Very right : and as 1 told you that which was 
performed according to the rules of the art of wrestling or of 
the gymnasium, is called gymnastic ; tell me also how you 
call that which is according to the rules of this other art ? 

Alcib. I call it musical, and say such a thing is done 
musically. 

Socrat. Very good. And in the art of making war, and 
in that of making peace, what is that which is best, and 
how do you call it ? Seeing as to those two other arts, you 
say: that which is best in the one, is that which is most 
gymnastic, and that which is best in the other, is that 
which is most musical ; try now, in like manner, to tell 
me the name of that which is best in the arts we are now 
upon. 

Alcib. Indeed, Socrates, I cannot tell. 

Socrat. But if any one should hear you discoursing, and 
giving advice about several sorts of food, and saying that 
is better than this, both for the season and quality of it ; 
and should ask you, Alcibiades, what is it you call better 1 
Would it not be a shame if you could not answer, that you 
mean by better that which is more wholesome ? Yet it is 
not your profession to be a physician. And is it not yet a 
greater shame that you know not how to give an answer 
in things you profess to know, and about which you pre- 
tend to give advice, as understanding them better than 
others ? Does not this cover you with confusion ? 

Alcib. I confess it does. 

Socrat. Apply your mind to it then ; and endeavour to 
give me an account what is the design of that better thing, 
which we seek in the art of making peace or war with those 
with whom we ought to be either in war or peace. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



33 



Alcib. I know not how to find it out, what effort 
soever I make. 

Socrat. What, don't you know, that when we make war 
we complain of something that has been done to us by 
those against whom we take up arms ? And are you 
ignorant of the name we give to the thing of which we 
complain ? 

Alcib. I know on such occasions we say, they have 
deceived us, they have insulted us, they have taken awaj 
our property. 

Socrat. Very well, when one of these things befalls us, 
I pray explain to me the different manner in which they 
may happen. 

Alcib. You mean, Socrates, that they may befall us justly 
or unjustly. 

Socrat. I do so. 

Alcib. And that makes an infinite difference. 

Socrat. Against what people, then, shall the Athenians 
declare war by your advice I Shall it be against those 
who follow the rules of justice, or such as act unjustly ? 

Alcib. A pretty question, Socrates ! if any one should 
be capable of thinking it needful to make war with those 
that follow the rules of justice, do you think he would 
dare to own it ? 

Socrat. Because, you will say, that is not conformable 
to the laws. 

Alcib. No, doubtless ; it is neither just nor honourable. 
Socrat. You will always, then, have justice in view in all 
your counsels. 

Alcib. That is very necessary. 

Socrat. But is not that better thing about which I was 
just now inquiring of you on the subject of peace or war, 
viz. to know with whom, when, and how, war and peace 
should be made, * always the most just ? 

Alcib. I am of that mind. 

Socrat. How comes this to pass then, my dear Alcibiades ? 
Is it that you perceive not that you are ignorant of what is 
just, or is it that I perceive not that you have learned it, 
and that you have secretly attended some master who has 

* It is not sufficient to know what is just, we should know what is 
most just : and this point is very difficult to be found. This is not 
vrithin the reach of little politicians. M. Le Fevre. 



34 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



taught you to distinguish well between what is most just, 
and what is most unjust ? Who is this master ? I pray 
tell me, that you may put me under his care, and recom- 
mend me to him. 

Alcib. These are your common ironies, Socrates. 

Socrat. No, I swear it by that God who presides over 
our friendship, and whom I would least offend by perjury, 
I very seriously entreat you, if you have a master, tell me 
who he is ? 

Alcib. And what if I have none, do you think I could 
not otherwise know what is just and unjust ? 

Socrat. You know it, if you have found it out yourself. 

Alcib. Do you think I have not found it out ? 

Socrat. I am persuaded you have found it if you have 
sought for it. 

Alcib. Do you think I have not sought for it ? 

Socrat. You have sought for it, if you have believed 
yourself ignorant of it. 

Alcib. Do you then imagine that there was not a time 
when I was ignorant of it ? 

Socrat. You speak better than you think ; but can you 
then precisely assign me the time, when you believed you 
did not know what was just and unjust ? Let us see ; 
was it the last year that you sought for the knowledge of 
this, being thoroughly convinced of your ignorance in this 
matter ? Or did you then think you knew it ? Tell the 
truth, that our conversation may not appear vain and 
trifling. 

Alcib. The last year I believed I knew it. 
Socrat. And did you not think the same, three, four, or 
five years ago ? 
Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. And before that time you were no more than a 
child, were you ? 
Alcib. Very true. 

Socrat. And at that time when you were but a child, I 
am very sure you thought you knew it. 

Alcib. How are you so sure of that ? 

Socrat. Because during your childhood, when you were 
with your masters and elsewhere, and * when you played 

* See what Aicibiades did one day as he was playing at dice, as it 
is reported by Plutarch in the beginning of his life. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



35 



at dice, or any other play, I have very often observed you 
did not hesitate to determine what was just or unjust ; 
and to tell the first of your playfellows that offended you, 
with a great deal of plainness and assurance, that he was 
base and unfair, and did you a great deal * of injustice. 
Is not this true ? 

Alcib. "What should I have said then, do you think 7 
when any injustice was done me I 

Socrat. If you were ignorant that what was offered you 
was unjust, you might then have asked what you should 
have done. 

Alcib. But I was not at all ignorant of that ; for I very 
well knew the injustice that was done me. 

Socrat. By this you see then, that when you were but a 
child, you thought you knew what was just and unjust. 

Alcib. I thought I knew it ; and so I really did. 

Socrat. At what time did you find this out ? for it was 
not when you thought you knew it. 

Alcib. No 3 doubtless. 

Socrat. At what time then do you think you were igno- 
rant of it 1 Consider : reckon. I am much afraid you will 
not be able to find that time. 

Alcib. Indeed, Socrates, I cannot give you an account 
of it. 

Socrat. Then you have not found out of yourself the 
knowledge of what is just or unjust. 
Alcib. So it seems, Socrates. 

Socrat. You just now acknowledged that you had not 
learned it of others neither : and if you have neither found 
it out yourself, nor learnt it of others, how came you to know 
it ? whence had it you 9 

Alcib. But perhaps I mistook myself, and did not answer 
you well, when I told you I had found it out myself, 

Socrat. How did you learn it, then ? 

Alcib. I learned it as others do. 

Socrat. Then we are to begin again : tell me of whom 
you learned it ? 

Alcib. I learned it of the people. 

* When children tricked one another in their play, the ordinary 
term they used at Athens was aciKtic. you do me injustice ; or, as we 
say, you do me wrong. There is a very express instance of it in Aris- 
tophanes' Clouds. M. Le Fevre. 



36 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



Socrat. Now you quote a bad master. 

Alcib. What ! are not the people capable of teaching it? 

Socrat. So far from that, that they are not capable of 
•eaching one to judge right * of a game at tables ; and 
that is much less important and less difficult than to un- 
derstand justice : don't you think so as well as I ? 

Alcib. Yes, without doubt. 

Socrat. And if they know not how to teach you things 
of little or no consequence, how should they teach you 
things of this importance and solidity. 

Alcib. I am of your mind : yet the people are capable 
of teaching a great many things much more solid than any 
thing that belong to this play. 

Socrat. What are those ? 

Alcib. Our language, for instance : I learned that only 
of the people ; I cannot name you any one single master I 
had for it ; I am altogether obliged to the people for it, 
whom yet you account so bad a master. 

Socrat. This is a very different case, f In this the 
people are a very excellent master ; and we have always 
reason to apply ourselves to them on this account. 

Alcib. Why? 

Socrat. Because they have every thing that the best 
masters ought to have. 

Alcib. Why, what have they ? 

Socrat. Ought not they who would teach others any 
thing, first to know it well themselves ? 
Alcib. Who doubts it ? 

Socrat. Ought not they who know any thing well, to 
agree about what they know, and never dispute about it ; 
for if they should dispute about it, would you believe them 
to be well instructed in it ? and could they be able to teach 
it to others ? 

Alcib. By no means. 

* This play was neither our draughts, nor chess ; but a more phi- 
losophical game : for it taught the motions of the heavens, the course 
of the sun, that of the moon, the eclipses, &c. Plato says, in his 
Phtedrus, it was invented by the Egyptians. 

t This was true at Athens especially, where all the citizens speaking 
prefectly well, and there being no different use of words, as now-a-day s 
among us, the people were an excellent master for the ground of the 
language. Therefore, Aristophanes says, the first comer was a child's 
master. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAX. 



37 



Socrat. Do you see the people disagree about what a 
stone and a stick is ? . Ask all our citizens that question, 
they will answer you alike : and when they go about to take 
up a stone or a stick, they Avill all run to the same thing; 
and so of the rest. For I understand this is what you 
mean by knowing the language; all our citizens constantly 
agree about this, both with one another, and with them- 
selves. Of all our Greek cities, there is not one that dis- 
putes about the signification and use of words. So that 
the people are yery good to teach us the tongue; and we 
cannot do better than to learn of them: but if instead of 
desiring to learn what a horse is, we would know what a 
good horse is, would the people, do you think, be capable 
of informing us ? 

Alcib. iS'o, certainly. 

Socrat. For one certain sign that they do not know it, 
and that they know not how to teach it, is, that they can- 
not agree about it among themselves. In like manner, if 
we desire to know, not what a man is, but what a sound 
or unsound man is ; would the people be in a condition to 
teach us this I 

Alcib. Still less than the other. 

Socrat. And when you should see them agree so little 
among themselves, would you not judge them to be very 
bad instructors ? 

Alcib. Without any difficulty. 

Socrat. And do you think the people agree better with 
themselves, or others, about what is just and unjust ? 
Alcib. Xo, indeed, Socrates. 

Socrat. You believe then they agree least of all about 
that I 

Alcib. I am thoroughly convinced of it. 

Socrat. Have you ever seen or read, that to maintain 
that a thing is sound or unsound, men have taken up arms 
against each other, and knocked one another on the head I 

Alcib. What a folly must that be ! 

Socrat. Well, if you have not seen it, at least you have 
read, that this has happened to maintain that a thing is 
just or unjust. For you have read Homer's Odyssey and 
Iliad. 

Alcib. Yes, certainly. 

Socrat. Is not the difference men have always had about 

E 



39 THE FIRST ALCIBIADES ; OR, 

justice and injustice, the foundation of those poems? Was 
it not this difference that caused so many battles and 
slaughters between the Greeks and Trojans ? Was it not 
this that made Ulysses undergo so many dangers, and so 
much toil, and that ruined Penelope's lovers ? 
Alcib. You say right. 

Socrat. Was it not this same difference that destroyed 
many Athenians, Lacedemonians, and Boeotians, at the 
famous * battle of Tanagra, and after that again at the 
f battle of Coronea, where your father was killed ? 

Alcib. Who can deny this? 

Socrat. Shall we then dare to say, the people know a 
thing well, about which they dispute with so much animo- 
sity, that they are carried to the most fatal extremities ? 

Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. Very good ! and yet are not these the masters 
you cite, when at the same time you acknowledge their 
ignorance? 

Alcib. I confess it. 

Socrat. What probability then is there that you should 
know what is just and unjust, about which you appear so 
uncertain and fluctuating; and which you confess you 
have neither learned of others, nor found out yourself ? 

Alcib. According to what you say, there is no probabi- 
lity of it at all. 

Socrat. How ! according to what I say ? You speak 
not right, Alcibiades ; say, rather, it is according to what 
you say yourself. 

Alcib. What !is it not you that say, I know nothing at 
all of what belongs to justice or injustice ? 

Socrat. No, indeed. 

Alcib. Who then? is it I ? 

Socrat. Yes, it is yourself. 

Alcib. How so? 

Socrat. I will tell you how so ; and you will agree with 

* This great battle was fought the last year of the eightieth Olym- 
piad. The Athenian Captain who gained it was named Myronides. 
Socrates was then twelve years of age, or thereabout.— M. Le Fevre. 

t This battle of Coronea was fought the second year of the eighty- 
third Olympiad. Here the brave Tolmides was killed : after which 
the Athenians were driven out of Boeotia. Socrates was then twenty- 
two years of age. This battle of Coronea has often, through mistake, 
been confounded with that of Cheronea.-— M. Le Fevre. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



39 



me. If I should ask you which is the greatest number, 
One or two? you would immediately answer, Two. And if 
I should again ask you, how much greater this number is 
than the other? you would likewise answer, that it is 
greater by one. 
Alcib. Very true. 

Socrat. Which of us two would it be then that would 
say two is more than one ? Would it be I ? 
Alcib. No, I should say it. 

Socrat. For it was I that asked, and you that answered. 
Is it not the same thing in the present question ? 
Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. If I should ask you, what letters compose 
Socrates' s name, and you should tell them me one after 
another ; which of us two would tell them ? 

Alcib. I should do it without doubt. 

Socrat. For in a discourse which is spent in questions 
and answers, he that asks never affirms, but always he that 
answers. It is I that have asked you, and it is you that 
have answered : it is you therefore that have affirmed the 
things you have said. 

Alcib. This must be granted. 

Socrat. It is yourself that have said that the fine Aici- 
biades, the son of Clinias, not knowing what is just and 
unjust, and yet thinking he knows it very well, is going 
to the assembly of the Athenians, to give them his advice 
about such things as he knows nothing of. Is it not so ? 

Alcib. It is even so. 

Socrat. One may then apply to you, Alcibiades, that 
saying of Euripides ; e: It is thyself that has named it." 
For it is not I that have spoken it, but yourself ; and you 
are to blame to charge it on me. 

Alcib. You have reason. 

Socrat. Believe me, Alcibiades, it is a wild enterprise to 
have a mind to go teach the Athenians that winch you do 
riot know yourself, and about which you have neglected to 
inform yourself. 

Alcib. I fancy, Socrates, the Athenians, and all the rest 
of the Greeks, very rarely examine in their council, what is 
most just or unjust ; for they are satisfied that is very 
evident. And therefore, without amusing themselves with 
this vain inquiry, they only consider what is most advan- 



40 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



tageous and useful : and utility and justice are very 
different things ; since there have always been people in 
the world that have found themselves very prosperous in 
the commission of great injustice ; and others who have 
succeeded very ill in the exercise of justice. 

Socrat. What I do you * think then, that if what is use- 
fid and what is just are very different, as you say they are 
you know what is useful to men, and why it is so ? 

Alcib. What should hinder me, Socrates ; unless you 
would ask me of whom I learned this too I or how I 
found it oat myself? 

Socrat. Is your proceeding just, Alcibiades, supposing 
what you say is not right, as that may very well be ; and 
that it is very easy to refute you by the same reasons 
which I have already employed? You would have new 
proofs, and fresh demonstrations, and treat the former as 
old clothes, which you are not willing to wear any longer. 
You are still for having something entirely new : but for 
my part, without following you in your stragglings and 
escapes, I shall ask you, as I have already done, whence 
you came to know what utility is ? and who was your in- 
structor? In a word, I ask you all I have asked you 
before. It is very certain you will answer me too after the 
same manner you have done, and that you will not be 
able to shew me either that you have learned of others to 
know what is useful, or that you have found it out your- 
self. But, because you are very nice, and do not love to 
hear the same thing twice, I am willing to drop this ques- 
tion, whether you know what is useful to the Athenians 
or no. But if what is just and what is useful are one and 
the same thing ; Or if they are very different, as you say ; 
why have you not proved it to me? Prove it me, either 
by interrogating me, as I have dealt with you : or in mak- 
ing me a fine discourse, which may set the matter in a 
clear light. 

Alcib. But, Socrates, I know not whether I am capable 
of speaking before you. 

* If what is useful, and what is just, were different things, yet if 
one knew what is useful, one might also know what is just : for wc 
know contraries by their contraries. But they are not different, and 
Socrates is going to prove it. Alcibiades knows no more what is 
useful than what is just. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



41 



Socrat. My dear Alcibiades, imagine me to be the assem- 
bly; suppose me to be the people. When you are among 
them, must you not endeavour to persuade every one of 
them ? 

Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. And when a man knows a thing well, is it not 
equal to him to demonstrate to this and that person one 
after another, or to prove it to divers persons all at once ? 
as one that teaches reading or arithmetic, can equally in- 
struct one or more scholars together. 

Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. And consequently, of whatsoever you are capa- 
ble of persuading many, you may very easily persuade one 
single person. But of what can a man persuade others? Is 
it not of that which he knows himself ? 

Alcib. Without doubt. 

Socrat. What other difference is there between an orator 
that speaks to a multitude of people, and a man that dis- 
courses with his friend in familiar conversation ; but that 
the former persuades a great number of people at once, 
and the latter persuades but one ? 

Alcib. It is likely there may be no other difference. 

Socrat. Come then : since he who is capable of proving 
what he knows to many, is by a much stronger reason 
capable of proving it to one single person ; display here 
all your eloquence to me, and endeavour to shew me that 
what is just is not always useful. 

Alcib. You are very urgent, Socrates. 

Socrat. I am so urgent, that I will presently prove to 
you the contrary of that which you refuse to prove to me- 

Alcib. Do so. 

Socrat. Only answer me. 

Alcib. Ha ! nothing but questions : let me entreat you 
to speak yourself alone. 

Soc?*at. What, are you not willing to be convinced? 
Alcib. Yes, with all my heart. 

Socrat. When you yourself shall grant, and affirm to 
I me, that what I advance is true, will you not be convinced? 
Alcib. I think I shall.* 

* Alcibiades is afraid of Socrates's questions; which shews this 
to be the best method to convince and refute. 

E 2 



42 



THE FIRST ALCIBIABES; OR, 



Socrat. Answer me then ; and if you yourself do not 
say that what is just is always useful, never believe any 
man living that shall tell you so. 

Alcib. Agreed; I am ready to answer you, fori shall 
receive no damage by it. 

Socrat. You are a prophet, Alcibiades ; but tell me, do 
you think there are some just things which are useful, and 
others which are not so? 

Alcib. Yes, certainly. 

Socrat. Do you think too that some of them are comely 
and honourable, and others quite the contrary ? 
Alcib. How do you say ? 

Socrat. I ask you, for instance, if a man who does an 
action that is shameful, does an action that is just ? 

Alcib. I am very far from such a thought. 

Socrat. You believe then that whatsoever is just is 
comely. 

Alcib. I am entirely convinced of that. 

Socrat. But is every thing that is comely and honour- 
able, good? or do you think there are some comely and 
honourable things that are good, and others that are evil? 

Alcib. For my part, Socrates, I think there are some 
honourable things that are evil. 

Socrat. And by consequence that there are some shame- 
ful things that are good ? 

Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. See if I understand you well. It has often hap- 
pened in battles, that one man in attempting to succour 
Ids friend, or relation, has received a great many wounds, 
or has been killed ; and another, by abandoning his rela- 
tion or friend, has saved his life : is not this your meaning ? 

Alcib. It is the very thing I would say. 

Socrat. The succour a man gives to his friend is a comely 
and honourable thing, in that he endeavours to save one 
whom he is obliged to save: and is not this what we call 
valour? 

Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. And this very succour is an evil thing, in that 
it is the cause of a man's receiving wounds, or of being 
killed? 

Alcib. Yes, without doubt. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



43 



Socrat. * But is not valour one thing, and death another? 
Alcib. Yes, certainly. 

Socrat. This succour then that a man gives to his friend, 
is not at the same time an honourable and an evil thing in 
the same respect. 

Alcib. So I think. 

Socrat. But observe, if that which renders this action 
comely, is not that which also renders it good ; for you 
have yourself acknowledged that in respect of valour this 
action was comely. Let us now examine whether valour is 
a good or an evil : and I will shew you the way to make 
this examination aright. Do you desire for yourself goods 
or evils ? 

Alcib. Goods, without doubt. 

Socrat. And the greatest? 

Alcib. Yes, you may be sure of it. 

Socrat. And you would not suffer any one to deprive 
you of them : 

Alcib. Why should I suffer that? 

Socrat. 'What do you think of valour? at what rate do 
you value it ? Is there any good in the world for which 
you would be deprived of it ? 

Alcib. No, not life itself. What, to be a coward! I 
would a thousand times rather choose to die. 

Socrat. Then cowardice seems to you the greatest of 
all evils? k 

Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. And more to be feared than death itself? 
Alcib. Most certainly. 

Socrat. Are not life and valour the contraries to death 
and cowardice ? 

Alcib. Who doubts it? 

Socrat. You desire the former, and by no means wish 
for the latter ; is it not because you find those very good, 
and these very 1 evil ? 

Alcib. Yes, doubtless. 

Socrat. You have yourself acknowledged, that the suc- 

* Socrates means, that valour and death being two very different 
things, it is ridiculous to judge of one by the other : but each of them 
ought to be examined by itself. The former of these is the thing 
under debate, -and not the latter. This is extremely ingenious : and 
Alcibiades did not expect such a very quick repartee. 



44 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES ; OR, 



cour a man gives to his friend in battle is a comely and 
honourable action; if it be considered with respect to 
the good that is in it, which is valour. 
Alcib. I have acknowledged it. 

Socrat. And that it is an evil action, when considered 
with respect to the evil that attends it; that is, wounds 
and death. 

Alcib. I confess it. 

Socrat.* Then it hence follows, that we ought to call 
each action according to what it produces ; we ought to 
call it good, if good springs from it ; and evil, if evil arise 
out of it. 

Alcib. So it seems to me. 

Socrat. Is not an action comely in that it is good, and 
shameful in that it is evil ? 

Alcib. That is beyond contradiction. 

Socrat. When you say then that the succour a man 
gives his friend in a battle is a comely action, and at the 
same time an evil action, it is as if you should say, it is 
evil though it be good. 

Alcib. Indeed, I think what you say is true. 

Socrat. Then there is nothing comely and honourable 
which is evil, so far as it is comely and honourable ; nor 
is any thing which is shameful good, so far as it is shameful. 

Alcib. So I think. 

Socrat. Let us seek for another proof of this truth. Are 
not all that do good actions happy ? Can they be happy, 
unless it be by the possession of good ? Is not this pos- 
session of good, the fruit of a good life ? And conse- 
quently, is not happiness necessarily for them that do 
good actions. 

Alcib. Who can deny it ? 

Socrat.^ Then happiness is a comely and honourable 
thing. Hence it follows that what is comely and what is 
good are never two different things, as we just now agreed; 
and that whatsoever we take to be comely, we shall also 
take to be good, if we look narrowly into it. 

* This maxim is false in Alcibiades' sense, but very true in that of 
Socrates ; for nothing can ever spring from a good action, but good ; 
as nothing but evil can spring from an evil one. 

t And consequently happiness cannot be the fruit of an ill life and 
of ill actions. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



45 



Alcib. This is absolutely necessary. 
Socrat. What do you say then, is that which is good 
useful, or not ? 

Alcib. Yes, it is useful. 

Socrat. Do you remember what we said when we spoke 
of justice, and about what we agreed ? 

Alcib. I think we agreed that all men that do just 
actions, must needs do what is comely and honourable. 

Socrat. Then that which is comely is good ? 

Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. Then that which is good is useful ? 
Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. And consequently whatsoever is just is useful ? 
Alcib. So it seems. 

Socrat. Take good notice that it is yourself who affirm 
these truths; for I, for my part, only ask questions. 
Alcib. I acknowledge it. 

Socrat. If any one then thinking he well understood the 
nature of justice, should go into the assembly of the 
Athenians, or Parthians if you please, (to lay the scene 
more remote) and should tell them he certainly knows that 
just actions are sometimes evil, would not you laugh at 
him, who have just now granted and acknowledged that 
justice and utility are one and the same thing 1 

Alcib. I solemnly protest to you, Socrates, that I know 
not what I say, nor where I am; for these things appear 
to me sometimes one way and sometimes another, accord- 
ing as you interrogate me. 

Socrat. Do not you know the cause of this disorder ? 

Alcib. No, I know nothing at all of it. 

Socrat. And if any one should ask you if you have three 
eyes or four hands, do you think you should answer some- 
times after one manner and sometimes after another ? or 
would you not answer him always after the same manner ? 

Alcib. Though I begin to be diffident of myself, yet I 
think I should always answer the same thing. 

Socrat. And is not this because you know very well you 
have but two eyes and two hands ? 

Alcib. I think so. 

Socrat. Since then you answer so differently whether 
you will or no about the same thing, it is a certain sign 
that you are ignorant of it . 



40 THE FIRST ALCIBIADES ; OR, 

Alcib. So one would think. 

Socrat. You confess then that your thoughts are uncer- 
tain and fluctuating ahout what is just and unjust, honour- 
able or dishonourable, good or evil, useful or the contrary. 
And is it not evident from hence, that this uncertainty 
springs only from your ignorance ? 

Alcib. It is evident. 

Socrat. Then it is a certain maxim, that the mind is 
always fluctuating and uncertain about every thing it does 
not know ? 

Alcib. It cannot be otherwise. 

Socrat.* But do you know how to mount up to heaven? 
Alcib. No, I protest. 

Socrat. Are you in any doubt, or does your mind fluc- 
tuate about this ? 

Alcib. Not in the least. 

Socrat. Do you know the reason of this, or would you 
have me tell it you ? 
Alcib. Tell it me. 

Socrat. It is because as you do not know how to mount 
up to heaven, so you do not think you know it neither. 
Alcib. How is that ? 

Socrat. Let you and I examine this. When you are 
ignorant of a thing, and you know you are ignorant of it, 
are you uncertain and fluctuating about this ? For ex- 
ample, about the art of cookery — do not you know you are 
ignorant of it ? Do you then amuse yourself in reasoning 
about the manner of dressing meat, and speak sometimes 
one way, and sometimes another ? do not you rather suffer 
the cook to take his own way ? 

Alcib. Yes, certainly. 

Socrat. And if you were on board a ship, would you 
concern yourself to give advice to turn the helm to the 
right or left ? and when you do not understand the art of 
navigation, would you speak about it sometimes after one 
fashion, and sometimes after another ? Would you not 
rather be quiet, and leave the pilot to steer ? 

Alcib. To be sure I should leave that to him. 

* After lie had shewn Alcibiades that ignorance is the cause of all 
the errors of mankind, he goes about to prove to him, that men ought 
not to be accused of ignorance in general, for if one kind of it is evil, 
there is another kind good, and this he maintains very solidly. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 47 

Socrat. Then you are never fluctuating and uncertain 
about things you do not know, provided you know that 
you don't know them ? 

Alcib, So it seems. 

Socrat. By this then you very well discern that all the 
faults we commit proceed only from this sort of ignorance, 
which makes us think we know that of which we are indeed 
ignorant. 

Alcib. How do you say ? 

Socrat. I say that which induces us to attempt a thing, 
is the thought we have that we know how to do it; for 
when we are convinced that we do not know it, we leave 
it to others. 

Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. Thus they who are under this last sort of igno- 
rance never commit any fault, because they leave to others 
the care of such things as they know not how to do them- 
selves. 

Alcib. That is true. 

Socrat. Who are they then that commit faults ? It is 
not they that know things. 
Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. Seeing it is neither they that know things, nor 
they who while they are ignorant of them, know that they 
are ignorant; it necessarily follows, that it is they who 
while they are ignorant of them, yet think they know 
them: can it be any others ? 

Alcib. No, it is only they. 

Socrat. Well, then, this must be the ignorance which is 
shameful, and the cause of all evils. 
Alcib. True, 

Socrat. And when this ignorance happens to be about 
things of very great consequence, is it not very pernicious 
and very shameful ? 

Alcib. It cannot be denied. 

Socrat. But can you name me any thing that is of 
greater consequence than what is just, what is honourable, 
what is good, and what is useful ? 

Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. Is it not about these things that you yourself 
say you are fluctuating and uncertain ? Is not this uncer- 
tainty a sure sign, as we have said already, not only that 



48 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



you are ignorant of these things that are so great and im- 
portant, but also that while you are ignorant of them, you 
think you know them ? 

Aleib. I am afraid this is but too true. 

Socrat. Oh, Alcibiades ! in what a deplorable condition 
then are you ! * I dare not mention it, yet seeing we are 
alone, it is necessary I should tell it you. My dear Alci- 
biades, you are under a very shameful kind of ignorance, 
as appears by your words, and your own testimony against 
yourself. And this is the reason you throw yourself with 
so much precipitancy into the government, before you are 
instructed m wlia t belongs to it. But you are not the 
only person who has fallen under this un happiness ; it is 
common to you with the greatest part of those who have 
intermeddled with the affairs of the commonwealth. I can 
except but a small number. Nay, it may be your tutor 
Pericles is the only person that ought to be exempted. 

Alcib. And, Socrates, it is likewise said he did not be- 
come so accomplished of himself ; but that he had a great 
deal of conversation with many great men, such as Pytho- 
clides, and Anaxagoras; and to this very day, as old as he 
is, he spends whole days with f Damon, to inform himself 
still more and more. 

Socrat.% Did you ever see any one who perfectly knew 
a thing, and yet could not teach it another ? Your read- 
ing-master taught you what he knew; and taught it whom 
he pleased. And you that have learned of him might 
teach it another. The same may be said of a music- 
master, and of a master of exercises. 

* He does not mention it immediately. Alcibiades is not yet in a 
condition to bear the horror of it. But he will mention it at length 
when he has disposed and prepared the young man to receive his 
thunder clap. 

t This is he of whom Plutarch speaks in the Life of Pericles ; 
under the specious veil of music he hid his profession, which was to 
teach politics. The people perceived this, and banished him with the 
sentence of the ostracism. 

$ Upon what Alcibiades had just said, that Pericles had rendered 
himself accomplished by the conversation of philosophers and sophists, 
Socrates would intimate to him that this conversation was very use- 
less for the acquiring of virtue, in which true accomplishment consists. 
And this he ingeniously proves by the example of Pericles himself, 
who had not been able to teach his own children any thing; a sure 
gign that he had learned no great matter of his sophists. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



Alcib. This is certain. 

Socrat. For the best sign that one knows a thing well, 
is to be in a condition to teach it others. 
Alcib. So I think. 

Socrat. But can you name me any one whom Pericles 
has accomplished ? Let us begin with his own children. 

Alcib. What does this prove, Socrates, if Pericles' chil- 
dren were blockheads ? 

Socrat. And your brother Clinias ? 

Alcib. A fine proof, indeed ! you talk to me of a fool. 

Socrat. If Clinias is a fool, and the children of Pericles 
were blockheads, how came it to pass that Pericles neg- 
lected such good natural parts as yours, and taught you 
nothing ? 

Alcib. I am the only cause of it myself, in not attending 
at all to what he said to me. 

Socrat. But among all the Athenians and strangers, 
whether freemen or slaves, can you name me one whom 
the conversation of Pericles has rendered more accom- 
plished ? as I will name you a Pythodorus, the son of 
Isolochus, and a Callias, the son of Calliades, who became 
very great men in Zeno's school, at the expense of a 
* hundred Minas. 

Alcib. I cannot name you one. 

Socrat. f That's very well ; but what will you do with 
yourself, Alcibiades ? will you continue as you are, or will 
you at last take some care of yourself? 

Alcib. It is a general affair, Socrates, and concerns me 
no more than others. For I understand all you say, and 
agree with you. Yes, all that concern themselves with the 
affairs of the republic, are a company of ignorant people, 
excepting a very small number. 

Socrat. And what then ? 

Alcib. J If they were men of great accomplishments, it 
would be necessary for one that should pretend to equal or 

* About £200. sterling. 

t Socrates is not willing now to push on this question which he lias 
started, whether virtue may be taught. The question is too general, 
and he will treat of it elsewhere ; here he keeps close to his subject, 
which is to confound the pride of Alcibiades. 

t This sentiment of Alcibiades is that which still to this day ruins 
most young men. 

F 



50 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



surpass theni, to learn, and exercise himself, and after that 
to enter the lists as wrestlers do; but seeing they do not 
fail to intermeddle with government, though endued with 
very indifferent and common qualities, what need is there 
for a man to give himself so much trouble in learning and 
exercise ? I am well assured, that with the assistance of 
nature alone, I shall excel them all. 

Socrat. Ah, my dear Alcibiades, what have you now 
said ? what sentiment is this so unworthy of that noble 
air, and all the other advantages which you possess ? 

Alcib. What do you mean, Socrates, when you speak 
thus ? 

Socrat, Alas ! I am inconsolable, both on your account 

and my own, I have so great an affection for you, if 

Alcib. If what ? 

Socrat. If you think you have only such kind of people 
to contest with, and to surpass. 

A Icib. Whom then would you have me strive to surpass ? 

Socrat. Again ! Is this a question becoming a man of 
a great spirit ? 

Alcib. What do you mean? Are not these the only 
persons I have to deal with ? 

Socrat. If you were to guide a * man of war, which was 
to fight in a little time, would you be content if you 
were more expert in navigation than all the sailors you 
had on board you? Would you not rather propose to 
yourself to acquire all necessary qualities, and to surpass 
all the greatest pilots on the enemy's side, without mea- 
suring yourself as you do now with those of your own 
party, above whom you should endeavour to raise yourself 
to that degree, that they should not have so much as a 
thought of disputing any advantage with you, but finding 
themselves absolutely inferior to you, should only think of 
fighting under your command ? These are the sentiments 
that should animate you, if you designed to do any thing 
great, and worthy, both of yourself and your country. 

Alcib. Why, this is all I design. 

Socrat. This must needs be a glorious thing indeed, 
Alcibiades, to be a braver man than our soldiers ! Ought 
you not rather constantly to set the generals of our enemies 

* An admirable lesson, which Socrates gives Alcibiades. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



51 



before your eyes, that you may excel them in capacity and 
greatness of courage ? And should you not study and 
labour to this end, always endeavouring to equal the great- 
est persons ? 

Alcib. Who, then, are these great generals, Socrates? 

Socrat. Do not you know our city is almost continually 
in war, either with the Lacedemonians, or with the * great 
king ? 

Alcib. I know it. 

Socrat. If then you think to put yourself at the head of 
the Athenians, you must also prepare yourself to receive 
the attacks of the f kings of Lacedemonia, and of the king 
of Persia. 

Alcib. You may be in the right. 

Socrat. No, alas ! no, my dear Alcibiades. J You have 
only to think of excelling a Midias, who is so accom- 
plished a man for feeding of quails, and others of the 
same rank, that seek to intrude themselves into the go- 
vernment ; who by their stupidity and ignorance shew (as 
our good women would say) that they have not yet quitted 
the skve, but retain hini still under their long hair; and 
who with their barbarous language are come rather to cor- 
rupt the city by their servile flatteries, than to govern it. 
These are the people you must set before you without 
thinking of yourself ; that when you are to engage in such 
great battles, you may go without having ever learned any- 
thing of what you ought to know, without being exercised 
at ah, without making any preparation; in a word, that 
without having ever given yourself the least trouble, you 
may go in this condition to put yourself at the head of the 
Athenians. 

Alcib. Socrates, I believe all you say is true. Yet I 
fancy the generals of Lacedemonia, and of the king of 
Persia, are like other generals. 

* The king of Persia. 

t For there were two at a time. 

t Plutarch is of use to make us understand the bitter satire that is 
hid under these words, for he informs us that Alcibiades applied him- 
self to feed quails, like this Midias ; witness that which he let fly out 
of his bosom in an open place, and which was caught again by a 
master of a ship, named Antiochus, who had the favour of Alcibiades 
ever after, insomuch that he left him the command of a fleet in his 
absence, which had like to have ruined the affairs of the Athenians. 



52 



THE FIRST 4LCIBIADES; OR, 



Socrat. Ah, my dear Alcibiades, pray observe what an 
opinion that of yours is. 
Alcib. Why so? 

Socrat. * In the first place, which of these two opinions 
do you think will be most advantageous to you, and will 
engage you to conduct yourself with the greatest care; 
whether to form to yourself a great idea of those men, 
which may render them formidable, or to take them, as 
you do, for ordinary men, that have no advantage a eve 
you ? 

Alcib. Doubtless that of forming to myself a great idea 
of them. 

Socrat. Do you think then it is an evil for you to con- 
duct yourself with care ? 

Alcib. On the contrary, I am persuaded it will be a very 
great good. 

Socrat. Then this opinion which you have conceived, 
already appears to be a very great evil. 
Alcib. I confess it. 

Socrat. But besides this it is false, and I will presently 
demonstrate this to you. 
Alcib. How so? 

Socrat. Whom do you account the best men; those 
who are of high birth, or such as are of mean extraction ? 

Alcib. Without doubt, those who are of high birth. 

Socrat. And do not you think, they that have had as 
good education joined to their high birth, have every thing 
that is necessary for the perfection of virtue ? 

Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. By comparing therefore our condition with 
theirs, let us see first of all if the kings of Lacedenionia, 
and the king of Persia, are of meaner birth than we : do 
not we know that the former descend from Hercules, and 
the latter from f Achemenes, and that Hercules and 
Achemenes descend from Jupiter? 

Alcib. And does not our family, Socrates, descend from 
Eurysaces, and does not Eurysaces carry his line up as far 
as Jupiter ? 

* What Socrates is now going to say, is one of the finest things an- 
tiquity has left us. 

t Achemenes, the son of Perseus. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



53 



Socrat. * And does not ours, my dear Alcibiades, if you 
take it that way, descend from Dedalus? And does not 
Dedalus likewise carry us back as far as Vulcan, Jupiter's 
son ? But the difference between them and us is, that 
they re-ascend as far as Jupiter by a continual gradation of 
kings without any interruption : the former have been the 
kings of Argos and Lacedemonia, and the latter have 
always reigned in Persia, and have often possessed the 
throne of Asia, as they do now, whereas our ancestors 
were only private persons like us. And if to do honour to 
your ancestors you were obliged to shew Artaxerxes the 
country of Eurysaces, or that of iEacus, which is still 
more remote, what occasion of laughter would you not 
give him in pointing out to him two little f islands not 
much bigger than one's hand ? Since then we are obliged 
to give place in point of birth, let us see if we are not like- 
wise inferior to them in respect of education. Have you 
never been told what great advantages the Lacedemonian 
kings have in this, whose wives are kept publicly by the 
Ephori, that they may be certain, as much as it is possible, 
that they produce no princes but of the race of Hercules ? 
And the king of Persia is so far beyond the kings of Lace- 
demonia in this respect, that it has never yet been so much 
as suspected that the queen could have a child that might 
not be the king's son. Therefore she is not guarded; all 
the guards she has are terror and majesty. When she is 
delivered of her first son, who is to succeed to the crown, 
all the nations that are spread over that great empire cele- 
brate his birth; after which, that day is annually one of 
their greatest festivals ; in all the provinces of Asia there 
are then nothing but sacrifices and feasts ; whereas when 
we are born, my dear Alcibiades, that expression of the 
comic poet may be applied to us : 

The news scarce to our nearest neighbours comes. 

When the young prince is weaned, he is not left in the 
hands of women, but is committed to the care of the most 
virtuous eunuchs of the court, whose business it is to form 
and fashion his body, that he may be brought to the best 

* This is a piece of raillery of Socrates, as we shall see when we 
come to his Eutyphron. 
t Egina and Salamina. 



54 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



shape that can be ; and this employ brings them abun- 
dance of honour. When the prince is seven years old, he 
is put into the hands of the gentlemen of the horse, who 
begin to carry him a hunting : at fourteen years of age, he 
comes under the charge of those who are called the king's 
preceptors: these are the four greatest lords, and the most 
accomplished men of all Persia; they are taken in the 
vigour of their age; one passes for the most learned, 
another for the most just, the third for the wisest, and the 
fourth for the most valiant. The first teaches him the 
magic of * Zoroaster the son of Oromazus, in which is com- 
prehended all the worship of the gods; he teaches him 
likewise the laws of the kingdom, and all the duties of a 
good king. The second teaches him always to speak the 
truth, though against himself. The third instructs him 
not to suffer himself at any time to be overcome by his 
passions ; that he may always maintain his freedom and 
his royalty, in having constantly an absolute dominion 
over himself, as well as over his people : and the fourth 
teaches him not to fear either dangers or death ; because 
if he should become timorous, from a king he would dege- 
nerate into a slave. Whereas, Alcibiades, for your part 
what preceptor have you had? Pericles left you in the 
hands of Zopyrus, a vile Thracian slave, who was indeed 
unfit for everything besides, because of his old age. I 
would here recount to you all the consequent matters re- 
lating to the education of your antagonists, but that I 
should be too long; and the specimen I have given you is 
sufficient to make you easily judge of the rest, f No 
person took care of you at your birth more than of any 
other Athenian ; nobody takes any pains about your 
education, unless you have some one who concerns him- 
self with it, because he sincerely loves J you. And if you 
consider the riches of the Persians, the magnificence of 
their habits, the prodigious expense they make in perfumes 

* Zoroaster was a Magus, and king of Bactriana ; he wrote divers 
volumes on magic, which contained religion, physic, and astrology. 
He lived in the time of Ninus, and of Noah. 

t It is certain the Athenians gave their children no governors, but 
slaves, or such as were enfranchised ; this appears by the Greek 
comedies which are left us, and by the comedies of Plautus and 
Terence. M. Le Fevre. 

X Socrates means himself. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



55 



and essences, the multitude of slaves that surround them, 
all their luxury, finery, and politeness, you will see yourself 
so little, that you will be quite ashamed of yourself. Will 
you but cast your eyes on the temperance of the Lace- 
demonians, on their modesty, easiness, sweetness, magna- 
nimity, their good disposition of mind under all the acci- 
dents of life, their valour, firmness, and constancy in 
labours, their noble emulation, and love of glory; in all 
these great qualities you will find yourself a child in com- 
parison of them. Again, if you would have us take notice 
of their riches, and think yourself something under this 
head ; I am willing to speak to it, to make you remember 
who you are, and whence you came : there is no com- 
parison between us and the Lacedemonians ; they are 
abundantly more wealthy. Shall any of us dare to com- 
pare our lands with those of Sparta, and Mesene ; which 
are much larger and better, and maintain an infinite num- 
ber of slaves, without counting the Helotes? Who can 
number that excellent race of horses, and those other sorts 
of cattle which feed in the pastures of Mesene ? whereas 
we inhabit a dry and barren country. But I pass by all these 
things. Would you speak of gold and silver ? I tell you, 
all Greece together has not near so much as Lacedemonia 
alone ; for the money of all Greece, and very often that of the 
Barbarians too, has for several ages gone into Lacedemonia, 
and never come out again. So that one might very well 
say, in allusion to what is said by the fox to the lion in 
iEsop's fables, " I see the track of all the money that is 
gone into Lacedemonia, but I see no track that signifies 
there is any gone out from thence." It is certain, the com- 
mons of Lacedemonia are richer than any other commons 
in Greece, and the kings are richer than all the rest of the 
Lacedemonians put together; for these pay their kings 
immense taxes, which extremely augment their revenues. 
But if the wealth of the Lacedemonians appears so great in 
comparison of that of the other Greeks, it is nothing when 
compared with that of the king of Persia. I heard a 
man, worthy of credit, who had been one of the ambassa- 
dors that was sent to that prince, say, he had travelled a 
great way in a very fine and fruitful country, which the in- 
habitants called the Queen's Girdle ; and that he made 
another long journey in another country as pleasant, 



5G THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 

"which they called the Queen's Veil; and that he passed 
through a great many other fine provinces that were des- 
tined only to furnish that princess with clothes, and had 
their several names from the things they were to provide. 
So that if any should go, and say to Amastris, the wife of 
Xerxes, the king's mother; (( There is at Athens a citizen 
whose whole estate is not above three hundred acres of 
land, which he possesses in the town of Erquies, and who 
is the son of Dinomache ; whose clothes and jewels all to- 
gether are scarce worth fifty * minse ; this citizen is pre- 
paring to make war with your son." Vfhat do you think 
she would say? " This man founds the success of his 
designs on his application, expedience, and great wisdom; 
for these" are the only things that make the Greeks 
esteemed in the world." But if one should say to her, 
" This Alcibiades is a young man, not yet twenty years of 
age, who is very ignorant, has no manner of experience, 
and who, when a certain friend of his, whom he passion- 
ately loves, represents to him, that he ought above all 
things to cultivate himself, to labour, meditate, to exercise 
himself ; and after having acquired the capacity that is 
necessary, might engage in war with the great King ; will 
not believe a word of the matter, and says he is fit enough 
for this as he is already." How great would be the wonder 
of this princess ? Would she not ask, " On what then 
does this young giddy-brains depend ?" And if we should 
tell her, " he depends on his beauty, his fine shape, his 
nobility, and fortunate birth;" would she not take us for 
fools, considering the great advantages the kings of Persia 
have in all this above us ? But, without going any higher, 
do you think Lampyto, the daughter of Leotichydas, the 
wife of Archidamus, and mother of Agis, who were all 
born kings of Lacedemonia, would be less astonished, if 
one should tell her, that as ill educated as you have been, 
you do not scruple to trouble your head with a design of 
making war with her son ? Alas ! is it not a horrible 
shame, that the very women among our enemies know 
better than we what we ought to be, to undertake to make 
war with them with any likelihood of success ? Follow my 
advice then, my dear Alcibiades, and obey the precept 



* About £100. sterling. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



57 



which is written on the gate of the temple of Delpbos, 
" Know thyself." For the enemies you have to deal with 
are such as I represent them to you, and not such as yu^ 
imagine them to be. The only means of conquering them 
are application and skill. If you renounce these so neces- 
sary qualities, renounce the glory too, of which you are so 
passionately ambitious. 

Alcib. Can you then explain to me, Socrates, how I 
ought to cultivate myself ? For no man whatever speaks 
more truly to me than you. 

Socrat. I can, without doubt, but this does not respect 
you alone ; this concerns us all, how many soever we are. 
We ought to seek the means of making ourselves better : 
and I speak no more on your account than on my own, 
who have no less need of instruction than you, and have 
only one advantage above you. 

Alcib. What is that? 

Socrat. It is this : my tutor is wiser and better than 
Pericles, who is yours. 

Alcib. Who is this tutor of yours? 

Sowat. It is God, who never permitted me to speak to 
you before this day : and it is in pursuance of his inspira- 
tions that I tell you, that you will never arrive at the 
reputation you desire, but by me. 

Alcib. You jest, Socrates. 

Socrat. It may be so. But, in fine, it is still a great 
truth, that we have great need to take care of ourselves. 
All men need this, and we yet more than others. 

Alcib. You speak no untruth, so far as it concerns me, 
Socrates. 

Socrat. Nor in what concerns me neither. 
Alcib. What shall we do then? 

Socrat. Now is the time to throw off laziness and softness. 
Alcib. It is very true, Socrates. 

Socrat. Come then, let us examine what it is we would 
become. Tell me, Would we not render ourselves * very 
good? 

* But there are many different sorts of goodness, and upon this 
Socrates is going to enlarge. For the word good in Greek signifies, 
accomplished, excellent, improved in any art or science, or virtuous. 
And the word evil, by the rule of contraries, has as many significations. 
This remark is necessary for the understanding of what follows. 

M. Le Fevre. 



58 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. In what sort of virtue? 

Alcib. In that virtue that renders a man good and fit. 
Socrat. For what ? 
Alcib. For business. 

Socrat. What business ? The managing of a horse ? It 
cannot be for that, for that belongs to equerries. Is it 
Navigation? nor that neither, for that belongs to pilots. 
WTiat business is it then ? 

Alcib. The business in which our best Athenians are 
employed. 

Socrat. What do you mean by our best Athenians ? Are 
they the prudent or imprudent ? 
Alcib. The prudent. 

Socrat. So that, according to you, when a man is pru- 
dent in any thing, he is good and fit for that thing ; and 
the imprudent are very bad for it. 

Alcib. Without doubt. 

Socrat. A shoemaker has all the prudence necessary for 
making shoes. And therefore he is good for that. 
Alcib. It is right. 

Socrat. But he is very imprudent for making of clothes, 
and consequently is a bad tailor. 
Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. That same man then is both good and bad? 
Alcib. So it seems. 

Socrat. It follows from this principle, that your Athe- 
nians whom you call good and honest men are bad too. 
Alcib. That is not what I mean. 

Socrat. What do you mean then by the good Athenians? 

Alcib. They that know how to govern. 

Socrat. To govern what ? Horses? 

Alcib. No. 

Socrat. Men? 

Alcib. Yes. 

Sowat. What sick men, pilots, or mowers ? 
Alcib. No, none of these. 

Socrat. Whom then? those that do something, or those 
who do nothing? 

Alcib. Those that do something. 

Socrat. Those that do what? Endeavour to explain your- 
self, and make me understand your meaning. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



Alcib. Those that live together, and make use one of 
another, as -we live in cities. 

Socrat. According to you then, the good Athenians are 
such as know how to command such men as make use 
of men.* 

Alcib. I mean so. 

Socrat. Is it those who know how to command the 
masters of gallies, who make use of rowers ? 
Alcib. No. 

Socrat. Because this belongs to pilots. Is it then those 
that know how to command the players on the flute, who 
make use of musicians and dancers ? No, doubtless, for 
this belongs to the masters of the choirs. 

Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. \Yhat do you mean then by knowing how to 
command such men as make use of other men ? 

Alcib. I mean, it is to command men that live together 
under the same laws and polity. 

Soci-at. ^VTiat is this art then that teaches to command 
them? If I should ask you what is the art which teaches 
to command all the rowers of the same vessel, what answer 
would you give me ? 

Alcib. That it is the pilot's art. 

Socrat. And if I should ask you what is the art that 
teaches to command musicians and dancers ? 

Alcib. I would answer you, it is the art of the masters 
of the choirs. 

Socrat. How then do you call this art, which teaches to 
command those who make the same politic body, and live 
together under the same government ? 

Alcib. It is the art of giving good counsel. 

Socrat. How ! what then is the art of pilots the art of 
giving bad counsel? Is it not their design to give good? 

Alcib. Yes, certainly, to save those that are in the ship. 

Socrat. You say very well : of what good counsel then 
do you speak ? and to what does it tend I 

Alcib. It tends to preserve the city, and to make it 
better policied. 

Socrat. But what is it that preserves cities, and makes 
them better policied ? ^Tiat is it that ought or ought not 

* Tlie politicians command the magistrates, and these the rest of 
the citizens. 



60 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



to be in them? And if you should ask me what it is that 
ought or ought not to be in a body to make it sound and 
in good health, I would immediately answer you, That that 
which ought to be in it, is health ; and that which ought 
not to be in it, is sickness : do not you think so as well 
as I? 

Alcib. I think the very same. 

Socrat. And if you should ask me the same thing of the 
eye, I should answer you after the same manner, That the 
eye is in a good condition, when it has all that is neces- 
sary for sight, and when nothing hinders it from seeing. 
And the very same of the ears, that they are very well, 
when they have every thing they need to hear well, and no 
disposition to deafness. 

Alcih. True. 

Socrat. And now for a city, what is it which by its pre- 
sence or absence makes it to be in a better condition, better 
policied, and better governed ? 

Alcib. I think, Socrates, it is when amity is well esta- 
blished among the citizens, and hatred and division are 
banished out of the city. 

Socrat. What do you call amity? is it concord or dis- 
cord ? 

Alcib. It is concord certainly. 

Socrat. What art is that which makes cities accord ; for 
example, about numbers? 
Alcib. It is arithmetic. 

Socrat. And is it this that makes particular persons 
accord one with another, and each one with himself? 
Alcib. Without doubt. 

Socrat. And how do you call that art which makes each 
one agree with himself about the length of a span or cubit ? 
Is it not the art of measuring ? 

Alcib. Yes, doubtless. 

Socrat. Then cities and particular persons accord by 
means of this art. And is it not the same thing about 
weight ? 

Alcib. The very same. 

Socrat. And what is that concord of which you speak, 
in what does it consist, and what is the art that produces 
it? Is the concord of a city the same that makes a parti- ' 
cular person accord with himself and others ? 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 

Alcib. I think so. 

Socrat. What is it ? Do not be weary in answering me, 
but charitably instruct me. 

Alcib. I think it is this amity and concord that makes 
parents agree with their children, one brother with another, 
and the wife with her husband. 

Socrat, But do you think a husband can agree well with 
his wife, and that they will accord perfectly about the 
tapestry which she works, and he knows not how to make 1 

Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. Nor is there any need of it; for it is the women's 
work. No more is it possible that a woman should agree 
with her husband about the use of arms ; for she knows 
not what belongs to it, this being a science which apper- 
tains only to men. 

Alcib. It is true. 

Socrat. You agree then that there are some sciences 
which are destined only for women, and others which are 
reserved for men. 

Alcib. Who can deny it ? 

Socrat. It is not possible that women should accord 
with their husbands about all these sciences. 
Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. And consequently there will be no amity, seeing 
amity is nothing but concord. 
Alcib. I am of your mind. 

Soci'at. So that when a woman does what she ought to 
do, she will not be loved by her husband ; and when a 
husband does what he ought to do, he will not be loved by 
his wife. 

Alcib. This is a certain consequence. 

Socrat. Then that which makes cities well policied, is 
not, for every one to follow his own employment in them. 

Alcib. However, Socrates, methinks — 

Socrat. How do you say ? Can a city be well policied 
without having amity in it ? Are we not agreed that it is 
by amity that a city is well regulated ; and that otherwise 
there is nothing but disorder and confusion? 

Alcib. But yet, methinks, it is this very thing that 
produces amity, namely, That every one mind his own 
business. 

Socrat. You said the contrary but just now. But I 

G 



62 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



must endeavour to understand you; what d) you say? 
That concord well established produces amity? What! 
can there be concord about things which some know, and 
others do not understand? 
Alcib. That is impossible. 

Socrat. When every one does what he ought to do, does 
every one do what is just, or what is unjust ? 

Alcib. A pretty question ! every one then does what is 
just. 

Socrat. Hence it follows, that when all the citizens do 
what is just, yet they cannct love one another. 

Alcib. *The consequence is necessary. 

Soci^at. What then is this amity or concord, that can 
accomplish and make us capable of giving good counsel ; 
so that we may be of the number of those whom you call 
your best citizens? for I cannot comprehend what it is, or 
in whom it is to be found. Sometimes it is to be found 
in certain persons, and sometimes it is not to be found in 
them, as it seems by your words. 

Alcib. Socrates, I solemnly protest to you, I know not 
what I say myself ; and have run a great risk in being a 
long time in an ill condition, without perceiving it. 

Socrat. Do not be discouraged, Alcibiades, if you should 
not perceive in what condition you are till you are fifty 
years of age ; it would be a difficult matter for you to re- 
cover yourself out of it, and to take care of yonrself : but 
now, at your years, it is the fittest time for you to feel your 
distemper after the manner you do. 

Alcib. But when a man feels his distemper, what must 
he do? 

* This consequence is very certain ; Alcibiades acknowledges it, 
but he does not yet understand the reason of it. I have given a hint 
of it in the Argument ; but it is fit to explain Socrates' thought 
here at length. His design is to shew, that when men precisely do 
only their own business, they only take care of what belongs to them- 
selves, and so limit themselves to the knowledge of particular things, 
and do not rise up to that of the essence of universal things, which is 
the only knowledge that produces union and concord ; whereas the 
knowledge merely of particular things produces disorder and divi- 
sion. Therefore, to make concord reign in a state, it is not enough 
for every one to take care of what he has; he must take care of 
himself too. This care will teach him to love his neighbour as him- 
self; and it is only this love which has God for its principle, that can 
produce concord and union. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



Socrat. You need only answer to some questions, Alci- 
biades ; which, if you do, I hope, by the help of God, both 
you and I shall become better than we are ; at least, if my 
prophecy is to be believed. 

Alcib. If there needs nothing but to answer you to 
bring it about, I will promise you your prophecy shall 
prove true. 

Socrat. Come then ; what is it to take care of one's self 
so, that when we think we take care of ourselves the most, 
it may so happen to us without our knowledge, to take care 
of quite another thing? What must a man do to take 
care of himself ? Does he take care of himself when hs 
takes care of the things that belong to him ? 

Alcib. * I think so. 

Socrat. How ! does a man take care of his feet, when 
he takes care of the things that belong to his feet ? 
Alcib. I do not understand you. 

Socrat. Do you know nothing that properly belongs to 
the hand ? To what part of the body do the rings apper- 
tain ? is it not to the fingers ? 

Alcib. Yes, doubtless. 

Socrat. And in like manner, the shoes belong to the 
feet. 

Alcib. Very true. 

Socrat. Do we then take care of our feet when we take 
care of our shoes ? 

Alcib. Indeed, Socrates, I do not yet understand you. 

Socrat. What do you mean then by taking care of a 
thing ? Is it not to make it better than it was ? What art 
is it then that makes our shoes better ? 

Alcib. It is the shoemaker's art. 

Socrat. fit is by the shoemaker's art then that we take 
care of our shoes : is it by the same art too that we take 
care of our feet, or is it by some other art that we make 
our feet better ? 

Alcib. Without doubt that is done by another art. 

* Alcibiades answers according to the principles that are almost 
generally received. Men think they take care of themselves, when 
they take care of the things that belong to them, but they are grossly 
mistaken : and Socrates is going to confound this error with great 
solidity. That which is mine, is not myself. 

t In Greece the shoemakers mended shoes as well as made them. 



64 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



Socrat. Do not we make our feet better by another art, 
which meliorates the whole body ? And is not this the 
gymnastic art? 

Alcib. Yes, certainly. 

Socrat. It is then by the gymnastic art that we take 
care of our feet ; and by the shoemaker's art that we take 
care of the things that belongs to our feet. It is by the 
gymnastic art we take care of our hands ; and by the gold- 
smith's art that we take care of the things that belong to 
our hands. It is by the gymnastic art that we take care 
of our bodies ; and by the weaver's art, and many other 
arts, that we take care of the things that appertain to our 
bodies. 

Alcib. This is beyond all doubt. 

Socrat. And consequently the art by which we take care 
of ourselves, is not the same with that whereby we take 
care of the things that belong to us. 

Alcib. So it seems. 

Socrat. Hence it follows, that when you take care of 
the things that belong to you, you do not take care of 
yourself. 

Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. For it is not by the same art that we take care 
of ourselves and of the things that belong to us. 
Alcib. I acknowledge it. 

Socrat. By what art is it then that we take care of our 
selves ? 

Alcib. I cannot tell. 

Socrat. We are already agreed, that it is not that by 
which we can make any of those things that belong to us 
better; but that by which we can meliorate ourselves. 

Alcib. It is true. 

Socrat. Can we know the art of making shoes better, 
if we do not first know what a shoe is ? or the art of 
taking care of rings, if we do not know first what a 
ring is ? 

Alcib. No, that cannot be. 

Socrat. Can we then know what art it is that makes us 
better, if we do not first know what we ourselves are ? 
Alcib. It is absolutely impossible. 

Socrat. But is it a very easy thing to know one's self? 
And was it some ignorant person that wrote that trivial 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



65 



precept on the gate of Apollo's temple at Delphos? Or 
is it, on the contrary, a thing of great difficulty, and which 
is not given to every man ? 

Alcib. For my part, Socrates, I have often thought it 
was given to all men ; and yet it has often seemed to me 
to be a thing of very great difficulty. 

Socrat. But, Alcibiades, let it be easy or difficult, it is 
still certain, that when once we know it, we immediately 
and easily know what care we ought to take of ourselves: 
whereas while we are ignorant of it, we shall never come 
to the knowledge of the nature of this care. 

Alcib. That is beyond all doubt. 

Socrat, Come on then : by what means shall we find 
out the * essence of things to speak universally ? By this 
we shall soon find what we are ourselves : and if we are 
ignorant of this essence, we shall always be ignorant of 
ourselves. 

Alcib. You say right. 

Socrat. Follow me close then, I conjure you in the name 
of God: With whom are you now discoursing? Is it 
with some other person, or with me ? 

Alcib. No, it is with you. 

Socrat. And I in like manner discourse with none but 
you : it i& Socrates that now speaks, and Alcibiades that 
hears. 

Alcib. True. 

Soci*at. It is by using words that Socrates speaks : for 
to speak, and to use words, is one and the same thing. 
Alcib. It is so, without doubt. 

* This universal essence of things, avroroavrd, is the divine intel- 
ligence, the eternal idea, the only cause of beings: and the singular 
essence, avroEKacrrov, is the thing formed on this idea. So that there 
are two ways of knowing one's self ; the first is to know the Divine 
Intelligence, and to descend from that to the soul, by following the 
designs which the all-wise Creator had in creating it : and the other 
is simply to know the soul as a being different from the body, and to 
be convinced that that alone is the man. The first is the most per- 
fect; however, Socrates leaves this at present, and applies himself 
only to the second, which is more easy : but he afterwards resumes 
it, and from the knowledge of the soul raises Alcibiades to the con- 
sideration of the Eternal Idea, in which alone, as in the true light, a 
man may perfectly see his soul, and all that belongs to it. The whole 
argument of Socrates is worthy the most solid theology. 

G 2 



66 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



Socrat. Are not he who uses a thing, and the thing 
which he uses, different ? 
Alcib. How do you say? 

Socrat. For example, a shoemaker who uses knives, 
lasts, and other tools, cuts with his knife, and is different 
from the knife with which he cuts. A man that plays on 
the harp, is not the same thing with the harp on which he 
plays. 

Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. This is what I asked you just now ; whether 
he that uses a thing, and the thing he uses, always seem 
to you two different things? 

Alcib. So they seem to me. 

Socrat. * But the shoemaker does not only use his 
tools, but his hands too. 

Alcib. That is beyond all doubt. 
Socrat. He also uses his eyes. 
Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. We are agreed that he who uses a thing, is 
always different from the thing he uses. 
Alcib. That is agreed between us. 

Socrat. So that the shoemaker and the harper are some 
other thing than the hands and eyes, which they both use. 
Alcib. That is plain. 
Socrat. Man uses his body. 
Alcib. Who doubts it ? 

Socrat. That which uses a thing, is different from the 
tiling which is used. 
Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. Man then is a different thing from his body ? 
Alcib. I believe it. 
Socrat. What is man then? 
Alcib. Indeed, Socrates, I cannot tell. 
Socrat. You can at least tell me that man is that which 
uses the body. 

Alcib. That is true. 

Socrat. Is there any thing that uses the body besides 
the soul? 

Alcib. No, nothing else, 

* He designs to prove, that the body is no less an instrument of 
the soul, than all the other remoter instruments which it uses. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN . 



67 



Soc?'at. It is that that governs, 
Alcib. Most certainly. 

Socrat. I believe there is no man but is forced to con- 
Alcib. What? 

Socrat. That man is one of these three things, either 
the soul, or the body, or the compound of them both. 
Now we are agreed that man is that which commands the 
body. 

Alcib. That we are. 

Socrat. What is man then ? Does the body command 
itself? No. For we have said it is the man that com- 
mands that. So that the body is not the man. 

Alcib. So it seems. 

Socrat. Is it then the compound that commands the 
body ? and shall this compound be the man ? 
Alcib. That may be. 

Socrat. Nothing less. For since one of them does not 
command, as we have already said, * it is impossible they 
both should command together. 

Alcib. It is very true. 

Socrat. Seeing then neither the body, nor the compound 
of soul and body are the man ; it is absolutely necessary 
either that man be nothing at all, or that the soul alone be 
the man. 

Alcib. Most certainly. 

Socrat. Shall I demonstrate to you yet more clearly that 
the soul alone is the man ? 

Alcib. No, I protest, this is sufficiently proved. 

Socrat. We have not yet sounded this truth with all the 
accuracy it deserves ; but it is sufficiently proved, and that 
may serve. We shall sound it farther, and penetrate it 
better, when we have found out what we just now quitted, 
because it required a longer investigation. 

Alcib. What is that ? 

Socrat. It is what we said but now ; that it is necessary 
we would first seek to know the very essence of things, to 
speak universally ; instead of which, we have stopped to 

* For besides that this is a contradiction, seeing that which does 
not command would then command; there is not a third thing for 
these two to command together. If the soul and the body both 
command, what is it that is under their command ? 



8 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



examine and know the essence of a particular thing ; and 
perhaps that is sufficient. For we can find nothing that is 
more properly and precisely ourselves, than our souls. 
Alcib. That is very certain. 

Socrat. So then this is a principle very well established, 
that when you and I converse together, by making use of 
discourse, it is my soul that converses with yours. And 
this is what we said just now, that Socrates speaks to 
Alcibiades, by addressing words not to the body which is 
exposed to my eyes, but to Alcibiades himself, whom I do 
not see, that is, to his soul. 

Alcib. This is evident. 

Socrat. He then who requires us to know ourselves, 
requires us to know our souls. 
Alcib. I believe it. 

Socrat. He who knows his body only, knows that which 
belongs to him, but does not know himself. Thus, a phy- 
sician as a physician, does not know himself, nor a wrest- 
ling-master as a wrestling-master, nor a husband-man as a 
husband-man. All persons of these professions, and those 
of the like nature, are so far from knowing themselves,* 
that they do not know particularly what belongs to them : 
and their art makes them adhere to what is yet more 
foreign to them than that which properly belongs to them. 
For they know only those things that appertain to the 
body, and by which they cure, and preserve it in health. 

Alcib. All this is very true. 

Socrat. If, therefore, it be a piece of wisdom to know 
one's self, there is no man of any of these professions who 
is wise by his art. 

Alcib. I am of the same mind. 

Scrat. f And it is for this reason all these arts appear 
vile and sordid, and consequently unworthy of a good man. 

* Physicians and masters of exercise indeed apply themselves to 
know the body ; but they know it only to a certain degree. For as 
Hippocrates says in his Treatise of the Ancient Art of Medicine, they 
content themselves with knowing what man is, with respect to what 
he eats and drinks, and to the exercises he performs : and what may 
occur to him from any of these things. So that they only know some 
certain qualities of matter, but not the essence of it. It is more easy 
to know the essence of the soul, than that of the body. 

t The only art truly worthy of a good man, is that of knowing, 
and labouring to perfectionate himself. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



69 



Alcib. It is very true. 

Socrat. \Yell then, to return to our principle, every man 
that takes care of his body, takes care of that which be- 
longs to him, and not of himself. 

Alcib. I grant it. 

Socrat. Every man that loves riches loves neither him- 
self, nor that which belongs to him, but loves a thing 
which is yet more foreign to him, and which only respects 
that which belongs to him. 

Alcib. I think so. 

Sccrat. Then, according to this principle one may 
affirm, that he who employs his care to heap up riches, 
does not manage his affairs well. 

Alcib. It is most certainly so. 

Socrat. If any one has been in love with the body of 
Alcibiades, that person has not been in love with Alcibiades, 
but with one of those things that appertain to him. 

Alcib. I am convinced of it. 

Socrat. That person who is in love with Alcibiades, 
must be one that is in love with his soul. 

Alcib. That is a necessary consequence of your principle. 

Socrat. And this is the reason that that person who 
only loves your body, retires when the beauty of this body 
begins to decay. 

Alcib, It is true. 

Socrat. But one that loves your soul never retires 
* while you make any progress in virtue, and every day 
make yourself still a better man. 

A Icib. That is very likely. 

Socrat. And this likewise is the reason that I am the 
only person that does not leave you, but continue constant 
after the flower of your beauty is faded, and all your admi- 
rers are retired. 

Alcib. You very much oblige me, Socrates; and I en- 
treat you not to abandon me. 

Socrat. Labour then with all your might to become every 
day more and more beautiful, f 

* So this passage ought to be translated. The Latin interpreters 
have made a mistake here, not remembering scog, has often the sig- 
nification of the present time. — 31. Le Fevre. 

t By beautiful he means virtuous. 



ro 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



Alcib. I will labour to become so. 

Socrat. As matters stand with you, it is easy to judge 
that Alcibiades, the son of Clinias, never had, nor has yet, 
more than one true lover; and this faithful lover is the 
* lovely Socrates, the son of Sophroniscus and Phenareta. 

Alcib. It is very true. 

Socrat. But did you not tell me when I met you, that 
I was before you but a moment, and that you had a de- 
sign to speak to me, to know why I was the only person 
that had not left you ? 

Alcib. I told you so, and it is true. 

Socrat. You now know the reason of it ; it is because 
I always loved you, and others only loved what belongs 
to you. The beauty of that which belongs to you begins 
to decay, whereas your own beauty begins to flourish. 
And if you do not suffer yourself to be corrupted by the 
people, and become more deformed, I will not forsake you 
as long as I live. But I very much fear, since you are so 
much -f in love with the applause of the people, that you 
will destroy yourself by this unhappy disposition, as it has 
been the lot of a great many of our best Athenians. For 
the people of the magnanimous J. Erectheus have a fair 
outside ; but we ought to look into them, and remove that 
fair covering which hides them from us. Believe me then, 
Alcibiades, and take the precautions I give you. 

Alcib. What precautions ? 

Socrat. To exercise yourself, and be instructed in what 
is necessary to be known, before you intermeddle with the 
affairs of the commonwealth ; that you may be always for- 
tified with an antidote ; and that you may not perish in so 
contagious and fatal a conversation. 

Alcib. All you say is very well, Socrates; but endea- 
vour to explain to me, by what means we may be able to 
take care of ourselves. 

Socrat. That is done already : for first of all we have 

* He jokes on his own deformity and low birth, which he opposes 
to the beauty, fine air, and nobility of his rivals. 

t He was so in love with the people, that he did not cease to be- 
stow gifts on them, and to present them with shows and plays. Plu- 
tarch speaks of a distribution of money, which he made when he 
was very young, and carried quails in his bosom. 

X Erectheus was one of the first kings of Athens. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



71 



proved what man is, and that with good reason ; because 
we feared, if that were not well known, we should take 
care of something quite different from ourselves, without 
perceiving it. We afterwards agreed that we ought to take 
care of our souls ; that this is the only end we should pro- 
pose to ourselves ; and that the care of the body, and of 
that which appertains to it, as riches, should be left to others. 
Alcib. Can any one deny this? 

Socrat. How can we understand this truth * more 
clearly, and evidently ? For when we have set it in its 
true light, it is very certain that we shall know ourselves 
perfectly well. Let us then in the name of the gods en- 
deavour to understand well the precept of Delphos, of which 
we have already spoken. For we do not yet well compre- 
hend all its force. 

Alcib. What force ? What do you mean ? 

Socrat. I am going to communicate to you what I take 
to be the meaning of that inscription, and the precept it 
includes. It is hardly possible to make you understand it 
by any other comparison than this, which is taken from 
the si°;ht. 

Alcib. How do you say ? 

Socrat. Observe well what I say. If this inscription 
spoke to the eye, as it speaks to the man,- and should say 
to it, " Know thyself;' 5 what should we think it required 
of it ? Should we not think it required it to look upon 
itself in something in which the eye might see itself? 

Alcib. That is evident. 

Socrat. Let us then seek for this things in which, as 
we behold ourselves in it, we may see both it and our- 
selves. 

Alcib. We may see ourselves in a looking-glass, and all 
other bodies of the like kind. 

Socrat. You say very well. Is not there likewise some 
little part of the eye, which has the same effect as a look- 
ing-glass ? 

Alcib. Yes, certainly there is, 

* M. Le Fevre had reason to say, that kvapykarepa ought to be 
read for ivagykarara > and that it should be translated more clearly . 
Socrates is now going to resume the proposition he had quitted, 
which was to know the universal essence of things ; and all he is 
going to say on this subject is incomparably fine. 



72 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



Socrat. You have observed then, that as often as you 
look into an eye, you see your own image, as in a glass, in 
that little part which is called by a name which signifies a 
* baby, because it is the image of him that looks on it. 

Alcib. It is true. 

Socrat. Then an eye, that it may see into another eye, 
ought to look into this part of it, which is the most beau- 
tiful, and which alone has the faculty of seeing. 

Alcib. Who doubts it ? 

Socrat. For if he should fix his looks on any other part 
of the body of man, or on any other object, unless it were 
like this part of the eye which sees, it would see nothing 
of itself. 

Alcib. You are in the right. 

Socrat. Therefore, an eye that would see itself, ought to 
look into another eye, and into that part of the eye in which 
all the virtue of it resides, that is, the sight. 

Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. My dear Alcibiades, is it not just so with the 
soul ? Ought it not to look into the soul to see itself, and 
into that part f of the soul in which all its virtues, that is 
to say, wisdom, is ingenerated ? Or else ought it not to 
behold itself in some other thing yet more noble, which 
this part of the soul in some sort resembles ? 

Alcib. So methinks, Socrates. 

Socrat. But can we find any part of the soul which is 
more divine than that in which knowledge and wisdom 
reside ? 

* There is a fault in the Greek which I wonder to find left there ; 
for what sense has Kopvtyrjv here, which signifies the top of a thing? 
It ought to be read Kopi]v, that is. the apple of the eye ; Kopn, pu- 
pilla, a poppet or baby. 

t That is, into our intellect or understanding. We ought strictly 
to remark with what wisdom Socrates here expresses himself. In 
speaking of the soul of man, he acknowledges, that wisdom is inge- 
nerated in it; that is, that it comes to it from without, for it is not 
its own light; this is derived into it from God. And a few lines 
lower, as he speaks of the Divine Intelligence, he does not choose to 
say, in which knowledge and wisdom are Ingenerated; but says he, 
in which they reside ; because it is wisdom itself, and the source of 
wisdom. The Latin interpreters, who did not pry into this accuracy 
of Socrates, have spoiled all the beauty of these passages by their 
translations. More attention and fidelity ought to have been used in 
handling theological truths. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. It is then in this soul, of which ours is but the 
image; it is in this divine soul we ought to behold our- 
selves, and to contemplate the whole Deity in it ; that is 
to say, God, and Wisdom, if we would know ourselves 
perfectly. 

Alcib, This seems very probable. 

Socrat. To know one's self is wisdom, as we have both 
agreed. 

Alcib. It is true. 

Socrat. While we do not know ourselves, nor are wise 
with this wisdom, we cannot know either our goods or our 
evils ; for it is not possible that he who knows not Alci- 
biades, should know that what belongs to Aleibiades does 
indeed appertain to him. 

Alcib. It is impossible. 

Socrat. It is only by knowing ourselves that we come to 
know that that which belongs to us, does indeed appertain 
to us : and if we know not what belongs to us, neither 
shall we know what has reference to the things that belong 
to us. 

Alcib. I confess it. 

Socrat. We therefore just now did ill to agree, that there 
are some persons, who though they da not know them- 
selves, yet know that which belongs to them, without 
knowing the things that appertain to that which belongs 
to them. For these three knowledges, to know one's self, 
to know that which belongs to one, and to know the things 
that appertain to that which belongs to one, are linked 
together ; they are the action of the same man, and the 
effect of one and the same art. 

Alcib. It is very likely. 

Socrat. Now, that man that knows not the things that 
belong to himself, neither will know those that belong to 
others. 

Alcib. That is evident. 

Socrat. And if he knows not what belongs to others, 
neither will he know what belongs to the city. 

Alcib. That is a certain consequence. 

Socrat. Therefore such a man can never be a good states- 
man ; nay, he cannot be so much as a good master to 
govern a family ; what do I say ? he cannot so much as 

H 



74 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



govern himself, for he knows not what he does : and if he 
knows not what he does, it is impossible he should be free 
from faults. 

Alcib. That is impossible indeed. 

Socrat. And if he commits faults, does he not do ill both 
in private and public ? If he does ill, is he not miserable ? 
and as he is miserable, does he not involve those that obey 
him in his misfortunes ? 

Alcib. Who can deny it ? 

Socrat. Then it is not possible that he who is neither 
good nor wise, should be happy. 
Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. Then all vicious persons are miserable. 
Alcib. I acknowledge it. 

Socrat. Then a man cannot deliver himself from his 
misery by riches, but by wisdom. 
Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. So that, my dear Alcibiades, cities have no need 
either of walls, or ships, or arsenals, or troops, or grandeur, 
to make them happy : the only thing they need is virtue. 
And if you would manage the affairs of the commonwealth 
well, you must give your citizens virtue. 

Alcib. This is an evident truth. 

Socrat. But can a man give that which he has not ? 

Alcib. How should he ? 

Soc?°at. Then you ought first of all to consider how to 
acquire virtue ; and so must every man who desires to 
take care not only of himself, and the things that belong to 
him, but also of the city, and the things that belong to 
that. 

Alcib. This is beyond all doubt. 

Socrat. Therefore you ought not to consider how to 
acquire for yourself, or your city, a large extent of empire, 
and the absolute power of doing what you please, but only 
how to acquire wisdom and justice. 

Alcib. I believe what you say. 

Socrat. For if you and your city govern yourselves 
wisely and justly, you will please God. 

Alcib. I am well convinced of that. 

Socrat. And you will govern yourselves wisely and 
justly, if, as I just now told you, you behold yourselves 
always in the Deity ; in that splendid light, which alone is 
capable of giving you the knowledge of the truth. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAN. 



75 



Alcib. This seems very reasonable. 

Socrat. For while you behold yourselves in this light, 
you will see yourselves, and will see and know your true 
goods. 

Alcib. Without doubt. 

Socrat. And so you will always do what is good. 
Alcib. Most certainly. 

Socrat. If you always do what is good, I dare answer 
for it, and warrant you, you shall be always happy. 

Alcib. Your warrant is very good in this case, Socrates. 

Socrat. But if you govern yourselves unjustly, and in- 
stead of beholding the Deity, and true light, you look into 
that which is without God and full of darkness, you will 
do nothing but the works of darkness, and such as are full 
of impiety : and it cannot be otherwise, because you will 
not know yourself. 

Alcib. I am of the same mind. 

Socrat. My dear Alcibiades, represent to yourself a per- 
son that has * power to do any thing he pleases, and yet 
has no judgment; what is to be expected from him? and 
what mischief is there that will not befall him ? For ex- 
ample, suppose a sick man has power to do whatever comes 
into his head, that he has no understanding in physic, is in 
a rage against every body, so that no person dare speak to 
him, or restrain him ; what will be the event of this ? He 
will, without doubt, destroy his body, and render himself 
incurable. 

Alcib. It is very true. 

Socrat. Suppose some person in a ship, who has not the 
judgment and skill of a pilot, should yet have the liberty 
to do what he thinks fit ; you yourself see what must cer- 
tainly befaU him, and those that abandon themselves to 
his conduct. 

Alcib. They must all necessarily perish. 

Socrat. The case is the same with cities, republics, and 
all states ; if destitute of virtue, their ruin is certain. 

Alcib. It is impossible it should be otherwise. 

Socrat. Consequently, my dear Alcibiades, if you would 
be happy, your business is not to acquire a large extent 

* When wisdom is wanting, absolute power always transports men 
beyond the limits of their duty, and induces them to trample reli- 
gion and justice under their feet. 



76 



THE FIRST ALCIBIADES; OR, 



of empire for yourself or your republic, but to acquire 
virtue. 

Alcib. Very true. 

Socrat. And before this virtue is acquired, it is better 
and more advantageous, I do not say for a child, but for a 
man, to obey him who is the most virtuous, than to com- 
mand. 

Alcib . I am of the same mind. 

Socrat. And what is best is also most beautiful. 

Alcib. Without doubt. 

Socrat. That which is most beautiful is likewise most 
becoming, and suitable. 

Alcib. That is beyond dispute. 

Socrat. It is then becoming and suitable to a vicious 
person to be a slave, for that is best for him. 
Alcib. Most certainly. 

Socrat. Then vice is a vile thing, and suitable to a slave. 

Alcib. So it seems. 

Socrat. And virtue is a noble thing, and suits only with 
a free man. 

Alcib. That cannot be contested. 

Socrat. Then this vileness ought to be avoided, which 
only suits with slaves. 

Alcib. Most certainly, Socrates. 

Socrat. Well then, my dear Alcibiades, do you now 
perceive in what condition you are? Are you in this 
noble disposition of mind, so becoming a man of your 
birth ; or 

Alcib. Ah, Socrates, I perceive very well I am in the 
condition you speak of.* 

Socrat. But do you know how to deliver yourself out 
of this condition, which I dare not name, when I speak of 
a man of your make ? 

Alcib. Yes, I do. 

* After Socrates has confounded the pride of Alcibiades, he gives 
a finishing stroke to lay him low, in reducing him to pronounce this 
terrible sentence against himself, That he is only worthy to be a slave, 
because he has no virtue, since it is virtue alone that makes men free. 
Jt is upon this, without doubt, that Plutarch says, Alcibiades, 
struck with the victorious reasons of Socrates, was like a cock, that 
after a long fight hangs the wing, and yields himself conquered, and 
that Socrates by his ingenious discourses touched him to the quick, 
and made him pour out a flood of tears. 



OF THE NATURE OF MAX. 



77 



Sccrat. Well, how can you deliver yourself ? 

Alcib. I shall deliver myself, if Socrates pleases. 

Socrat. You do not say well, Alcibiades. 

Alcib. What should I say then ? 

Socrat. You should say, if God pleases. 

Alcib. Well then, I say if God pleases ; and I add, let 
us for the future change persons ; you shall personate me, 
and I you : that is to say, I will now * make my court to 
you, as you have hitherto made yours to me. 

Socrat. If so, my dear Alcibiades, what is reported of 
the stork, may be said of the love I hare for you ; for after 
it has hatched and nourished a little winged love in your 
bosom, this little love shall take his turn to cherish and 
nourish that in his old age. 

Alcib. It shall be so ; and frorn this day I will apply 
myself to righteousness. 

Socrat, I desire you may, through the whole course of 
your life, persevere in this design ; but I confess, I fear 
it very much. Not that I distrust your good temper : but 
the force of the examples that reign in this city, occasion 
these apprehensions. I tremble for fear they should be 
too strong both for you and me. 

* This passage is corrupted in the text. It should be read wg 
vtto gov BTraidaywyrjOrjv, or ojq av sfis kTraicayajyijcac, I will he 
your pedagogue, or schoolmaster, as you have teen mine. We see 
Socrates has been constantly following Alcibiades as his schoolmaster ; 
for the future, Alcibiades designs to follow Socrates in his turn ; but 
it will be to learn of him, and not to teach him. In Greece they had 
schoolmasters for their children, because they went to public schools, 
and there were no private masters but for persons of the first quality ; 
and they made use of them but rarely. — M. Le Fevre. In the trans- 
lation it was requisite to put an equivalent term, because the word 
pedagogue, or schoolmaster, would not have sounded well. 



H 2 



THE SECOND ALCIBIADES; 

OK, 

OF PRAYER. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Piety is file only spring of our happiness, and it is prayer alone 
that nourishes piety : by this we keep up a continual correspondence 
with God, represent our necessities to him, and draw down his 
favours upon us. So that the essence of religion consists in prayer. 
For prayers are properly the sallies of a soul penetrated with piety, 
discovering to God its misery, in order to request a remedy. But 
our passions fill our minds with so much darkness, that we know 
neither our goods nor our evils ; but following our own desires every 
day, offer such petitions to God, as would be fatal to us, and would 
become real curses, if God should hearken to us. Therefore there is 
nothing of so great importance as prayer • nothing that requires so 
much prudence and attention, and yet we go about nothing with so 
much temerity and negligence. Plato here vigorously opposes this 
abuse ; and teaches, that if we would pray well, we must learn to 
know our goods and evils ; that the knowledge of this is only taught 
by God ; and consequently, that it is God alone that can dissipate the 
darkness of our souls, and teach us to pray. Till then we cannot 
safely make any prayers of ourselves, without being exposed to great 
dangers. But are we in the meantime to continue without prayer, 
though we are in continual need of the Divine assistance? There 
would be stupidity or pride in this kind of inaction. Certainly it 
would be more eligible for the soul to continue in silence, than to 
ask evils of God, when she desires to ask good ; but God has given 
her some help under this ignorance, in inspiring, even during the 
time of darkness, a prayer which teaches us to abandon ourselves to 
him, and to request of him, that he would do his own will in us, and 
not ours. Of all the prayers men are capable of making, this is the 
most agreeable to God, and this Socrates would have men continually 
make. When God has once enlightened and instructed us, we shall 
then ask of him what we think necessary ; for seeing we shall speak 
only by his Spirit, we shall request of him that which is truly good, 
which he is always willing to grant ; and will never foil to give it, 
because he truly loves us. This is what Socrates designs to teach in 



THE SECOND ALCIBIADES. 



7<) 



this Dialogue, which may be termed sacred ; since it is full of maxims, 
worthy of Christianity itself, and very useful both for politics and 
religion. As when Socrates says, all the sciences in the world, 
without the knowledge of that which is very good, are pernicious, in- 
stead of being useful; when he teaches us, that God is not to be cor- 
rupted by bribes, and that he does not regard the sacrifices and offer- 
ings of the wicked, but the righteousness and holiness of those that 
invoke him • and when he assures us, that God is free, and has a 
sovereign power to hear or reject our supplications ; whence it fol- 
lows, that when he hears them, he shews us an act of grace, and not 
of strict justice. There are many other beauties which may be easily 
remarked, because they very sensibly and obviously offer themselves. 
This Dialogue is a kind of continuation of the preceding. As in the 
former, Alcibiades seemed to understand but little with respect to 
human affairs ; In this he appears to be very ignorant in Divine 
things : for there is so great a connection between them, that those 
who are ignorant of the one, are necessarily ignorant of the other, as 
Socrates demonstrates, when he shews, that to know God, to know 
one's self, and to know what appertains to ourselves, and what to 
others, is the effect of one and the same art. We may observe, by 
the way, as we have done before, that this Dialogue is sustained, as 
all the rest are, by action. And this dramatic air is that which ani- 
mates it, and is one of its greatest beauties. 

All that is farther necessary to be known is, at what time Plato 
supposes it to be made. If we follow his interpreters, they make him 
fall into a very ridiculous inconveniency. For after he had said 
Archelaus, king of Macedonia, was killed, he speaks of Pericles as a 
person yet alive, contrary to what is certainly known, namely, that 
Archelaus survived Pericles, and was not assassinated till twenty 
years after his death ; and contrary to what Plato himself says, in 
his Gorgias and Theages. We shall see in the notes what led Plato's 
interpreters into this mistake. In the meantime it may be main- 
tained, that Socrates held these discourses with Alcibiades, the first 
year of the ninety-third Olympiad ; for Perdiccas reigned thirteen 
years after the death of Pericles, who died the last year of the eighty- 
seventh Olympiad. Archelaus, who killed Perdiccas, reigned seven 
years, and then was killed the last year of the ninety-second Olym- 
piad. This naturally leads us to the time of this Dialogue. They 
that make Archelaus to have reigned sixteen years, or Perdiccas 
twenty-three, make Archelaus survive Alcibiades and Socrates. 

This Dialogue is of the same character with the preceding, 
fiauvrucbg ; that is, Socrates here makes Alcibiades find out the 
truths which he designs to teach him. It is also a moral Dialogue, 
as well as the former. 



80 



THE SECOND ALCIBIADES ; OR, 



SOCRATES, ALCIBIADES. 

Socrat. Alcibiades, are you going into this temple to say 
your prayers ? 

Alcib. Yes, Socrates, that is my design. 

Socrat, Indeed you seem very thoughtful: I see your 
eyes are fixed on the ground, like a man that is thinking on 
some very serious matter. 

Alcib. What should I think on, Socrates? 

Socrat. "What should you think on ! on some very impor- 
tant thing, I suppose ; for I beseech you, in the name of 
God, tell me, whether when we address our prayers to the 
Gods, either in public or private, do they not grant us some 
things, and refuse us others? Do they not hear some per- 
sons, and reject others? 

Alcib. That is very true. 

Socrat. Do not you think, then, that prayer requires a 
great deal of precaution and prudence, lest before we are 
aware we ask the Gods great evils, while we think we are 
requesting what is good ; and lest they should be disposed 
to grant what is requested of them? as they granted GEdi- 
pus's petition, who prayed that his children might decide 
their rights by the sword. This unhappy father, who 
might have prayed to the Gods to remove from him the 
mischiefs that oppressed him, drew new miseries on him- 
self by his horrible imprecations ; for his petitions were 
heard, and this proved a source of terrible calamities to his 
family, the particulars of which I need not relate to you. 

Alcib. But, Socrates, you tell me of a mad man; can 
you believe any man in his senses would have made such 
kind of prayers ? 

Socrat. Then to be mad, you think, is opposed to being 
wise. 

Alcib. Most certainly. 

Socrat. Do not you think that some men are fools, and 
others wise ? 
Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. Come, then, let us endeavour to know and dis- 
tinguish them well ; for you agree that there are some that 
are foolish, others that are wise, and others that are mad. 

Alcib. I do so. 



OF PRAYER. 



81 



Socrat. Are not some people in health., and others sick ? 

Alcib. That is certain. 

Socrat. These are not the same persons. 

Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. Is there a third sort, who are neither sick nor 
in health ? 

Alcib. No : that cannot be. 

Socrat. For a man must necessarily be in health or sick : 
there is no medium.* 
Alcib. So I think. 

Socrat. But is it the same thing with respect to wisdom 
and folly, in your opinion? 
Alcib. How do you say? 

Socrat. I ask you, if a man must necessarily be either 
foolish or wise? or is there a certain medium which makes 
one become neither a wise man nor a fool ? 

Alcib. No : there is no medium. f 

Socrat. Then we must necessarily be one or the other. 

Alcib. So I think. 

Socrat. Did you not just now grant, that madness is 
opposite to wisdom ? 
Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. And that there is no medium, or such a condi- 
tion as to be neither wise nor foolish ? 
Alcib. I did grant it. 

Socrat. But is it possible for the same thing to have two 
contraries opposed to it ? 
Alcib. By no means. 

* If one were disposed to criticise, he might say, there is a third 
state, which is that of convalescence, in which men have not yet 
recovered health, neither are properly sick. But at bottom, this is 
not true ; for one who is recovering is no longer under the power of 
sickness, but is in the way of health. 

t To this it is objected, that there is a certain medium between 
virtue and vice, which is the state of such as are neither vicious nor 
virtuous, as Tacitus says of Galba, " Jtfagis extra vitia quam cum 
virtutUms' 3 But it is easy to see, that this expression of Tacitus is 
not true, but only in the common language of the world, which 
makes a superficial judgment, without penetrating deeply into 
things, and so calls none vicious but those who practise gross vices; 
and is false, when we speak with a philosophic accuracy. ^Yherever 
virtue is not, there vice must necessarily be. The same may be 
said of wisdom and folly. Every man who is not w ? ise, can be no 
other than a fool. 



82 



THE SECOND ALCIBIADES ; OR, 



Socrat. Then folly and madness will appear to be one 
and the same thing. 
Alcib. So methinks. 

Socrat. Then if we say all fools are mad, we shall say 
right. 

Alcib. Certainly. 

Socrat. Without going any farther : among all the men 
of your age, if there are any fools, as without doubt there 
are, and some of a longer standing, (for, I pray, do not 
you find wise men are very rare in this city, and fools very 
numerous) would you call these fools mad ? 

Alcib. Without any scruple. 

Socrat. But do you think we should be very safe among 
so many mad men? and that we should not before now 
have borne the punishment of such conversation, in suffer- 
ing from them whatever might be expected from mad men ? 
Have a care what you say therefore, my dear Alcibiades, 
lest this matter be otherwise than you pretend. 

Alcib. Well, then, how is it ? for I perceive it may be 
otherwise than I say. 

Socrat. I think so too ; and we must examine the mat- 
ter after this manner. 

Alcib. After what manner? 

Socrat. I am going to tell you. Some persons are sick, 
are they not ? 

Alcib. Who doubts it? 

Socrat. Is it absolutely necessary, that every one that 
is sick, should have the gout, or fever, or sore eyes ? and 
do not you think he may be free from all these distempers, 
and yet be sick of another disease ? For there are divers 
kinds of diseases besides these. 

Alcib. So I think. 

Socrat. You believe every distemper of the eyes is a 
disease ; but you do not think every disease is a distemper 
of the eyes. 

Alcib. No certainly ; but yet I do not see what that 
proves. 

Socrat. But if you will follow me, I am persuaded we 
shall find that presently. You know that saying of the 
poet, " Two men that go together."* 

* Plato often intermixes sentences of the poets in his Discourses, 
Without giving any notice when he does it. To understand this 



OF PRAYER. 



S3 



Alcib. I follow you with all my might, Socrates. 

Socrat. Are we not agreed that every distemper of the 
eyes is a disease, and that every disease is not a distemper 
of the eyes ? 

Alcib. In that vre are agreed. 

Socrat. And that with good reason : for all that have a 
fever, are sick ; hut all that are sick have not a fever, or the 
gout, or sore eyes. All these afflictions are diseases, hut 
physicians assure us, that they are so many different dis- 
eases by their effects ; for they are not all alike, and they 
do not deal with them all after the same manner, but ac- 
cording to the nature and violence of them. Are there 
not a great many sorts of artificers ? There are shoemakers, 
bricklayers, architects, carvers, painters, and a multitude of 
others, whom I need not name ; work is divided among 
them. They are all artificers, but they are not all carvers 
or architects. 

Alcib. It is true. 

Socrat. In like manner, folly is divided among men : 
those that have the greatest share of it we call mad, or 
distracted ; those that have a degree less, we call fools, 
and stupid. But while men seek to hide these vices under 
honourable and specious names, they call the former, men 
of magnanimity and courage ; and they call the others, men 
of simplicity ; or else they say they have no harm in them, 
but have little experience, and much youth. You will find 
a great many other names besides these, with which they 
palliate their weak side. But these are so many sorts of 

passage well, and to know all its elegancy, it is necessary to re™ 
member the words Homer puts into Diomedes's mouth, when -Nestor 
proposes to send spies into the Trojan camp. For he speaks thus: 
"My courage prompts me to go into the enemy's army; but if any 
one would accompany me, I should go with greater boldness and 
confidence : for two men that go together take a better view of 
things ; one sees what the other does not observe. One man alone, 
though he want not prudence, yet has always less vigour and activity 
in his mind/' — Iliad, K. ver. 224. So that here is a manifest allu- 
sion to this passage. Homer says, crvvre ct epxofisvoj , "two men 
that go together;" and Plato says, Svo GKOTr-o/jL&vio, u two men that 
examine together." But because Homer is not now so well known 
as he was in Plato's time, I have elucidated the passage in the 
translation, by adding, i( You know the saying of the poet without 
which, the allusion would not have been perceivable. The Latin 
translators have slipt over it, without perceiving it. 



81 



THE SECOND ALCIBIADES ; OK, 



folly, which differ only as one art does from another, and one 
disease from another. Do not you think so as well as I ? 

Alcib. I am of the same mind with you. 

Socrat. To return then to our subject. Our first design 
was exactly to know and distinguish the foolish from the 
wise : for we agreed that some men are wise and others 
foolish, did we not? 

Alcib. Yes, in that we agreed. 

Socrat. Do not you call him wise who knows what he 
ought to say or do ; and him foolish who knows neither 
one nor the other ? 

Alcib. Yes, certainly. 

Socrat. Are they who know not what they ought to say 
or do, ignorant that they say and do what they ought not ? 
Alcib. I think so. 

Socrat. I told you (Edipus was of that number : but 
you will yet find in our time a multitude of people, who, 
without being transported with an emotion of anger, like 
him, will request of God real evils, while they think they 
are asking real goods. For as to (Edipus, if he did not 
ask for what was good, neither did he think he asked it ; 
whereas others every day do the quite contrary : and with- 
out going any farther, Alcibiades, if the God to whom you 
are going to pray, should appear suddenly to you, and 
before you have opened your lips, should ask you, if you 
would be content to be the tyrant of Athens, or (if that 
seem too little for you) of all Greece ; or if you were not 
yet satisfied, should promise you all Europe together ; and 
fully to gratify your ambition, should add, that that very 
day all the world should know that Alcibiades, the son of 
Ciinias, is king : I am persuaded you would go out of the 
temple with abundance of joy, as one that has just received 
the greatest of all goods, 

Alcib. And, Socrates, I verily believe there is no man 
but he would be transported with joy, if the same thing 
should happen to him. 

Socrat. But you would not give your life for the empire 
of the Greeks, nor for that of the barbarians ? 

Alcib. No, certainly: to what purpose? for then I 
should not enjoy that empire. 

Socrat. But suppose you could enjoy it, would you do 
so, if this enjoyment were to be fatal to you ? 



OF PRAYER. 



85 



Alcib. No ; neither would I do it oh that condition. 

Socrat. Then by this you see very well, that it is not 
safe to accept, or desire what one does not know ; if it be 
true, that it may bring great mischief upon us, or even 
make us lose our lives : for I could name to you a great 
many of those ambitious men, who having passionately 
desired tyranny, and spared nothing to obtain it, as the 
greatest of all goods ; yet have derived no other advantage 
from this great elevation, than to be exposed to the stra- 
tagems of their enemies, who have assassinated them on 
the throne. It is impossible but you must have heard of 
that tragical story that has lately happened. Archelaus, * 
king of Macedonia, had a favourite whom he loved with 
an unbounded passion : this favourite, who was yet more 
in love with the throne of Archelaus, than his prince was 
with him, killed him to fill up his place, flattering himself 
that he should be the happiest man in the world : but he 
had scarce enjoyed the tyranny three or four days, when he 
was cut off by others that were possessed with the same 
ambition. And among our Athenians, (for these are exam- 
ples which come not to us by hearsay, but such as 
we have seen with our eyes) how many have there been, 
who, after they had ardently aspired to be generals of the 
army, and had obtained what they desired, have been put 
to death, or banished? How many others who have seemed 
more happy, have passed through innumerable dangers, 
and been exposed to continual fears, not only during the 
time of their being generals, but also after their return into 
their country, where they have all their lifetime had a more 
cruel siege to maintain against envious detractors, than all 
they sustained in war against the enemies of the state ? 
So that the greatest part of them wished they had never 
been any more than private men, rather than to have had 
the command of armies at so dear a rate. If all these dan- 
gers and fatigues should produce a man any advantage in 
the end, there would be some reason for him to expose 
himself to them ; but it is quite the contrary. What I 
say of honours, I say also of children : how many people 

* Archelaus was the natural son of Perdiccas. He killed his 
father, his uncle Alcetas, and his son. He afterwards killed the 
legitimate son of Perdiccas; and after he had possessed the throne 
seven years, was assassinated by his favourite Craterus. 

I 



86 



THE SECOND ALCIBIADES ; OR, 



have we seen, who, after they have importunately desired 
of God, that he would give them children, and have ac- 
cordingly obtained them, have by this means precipitated 
themselves into terrible miseries and troubles ? for some of 
them have spent their whole lives in sorrow and bitterness, 
because their children have proved wicked; and others 
who have had such as have proved good, have been no more 
happy than the former, because they have lost them for 
the most part in the flower of their age : so that they 
had much rather never have had them. Now though all 
these miseries, and many others, are very obvious, and 
common, yet there is scarce a man to be found, who 
would refuse these false goods, if God should give them 
him; or who would cease to importune him for them, if 
he were assured he should obtain them by his prayers. 
The generality of men would not refuse, either the supreme 
rule or the command of armies, or any other great ho- 
nours, which yet are certainly much more pernicious than 
useful ; but would even request them of God, if they 
did not spontaneously offer themselves to them. But 
wait a moment, and you will hear them sing a palinodia,* 
and offer petitions quite contrary to the former. For my 
part, I cannot choose but think, that men are really to 
blame in complaining of the Gods, and accusing them of 
being the cause of the miseries they suffer ; for it is them- 
selves, who, by their faults, or rather by their follies, 

" In spite of fate draw mischiefs on themselves." + 
And therefore, Alcibiades, that ancient poet seems to me 
to have had a great deal of sense and reason, who having 
(as I think) very imprudent friends, whom he saw every 
day going on in a course of asking of God such things as 
seemed good, and yet were very bad for them, composed 
for them this prayer : " Great God, give us the good things 
that are necessary for us, whether we ask them or not; 
and keep evil things from us, even when we ask them of 
thee." This seems to be a most excellent and very safe 
prayer. If you have anything to object against it, do not 
hide it from me. 

Alcib. It is hard to contradict what is well spoken. 
The only reflection I make on it Socrates, is, how many 

* A recantation, 
f This is a passage of Homer, in the first book of his Odyssey, at 
the beginning 



OF PRAYER. 8/ 

evils are brought upon mankind by ignorance. For we 
do not so much as perceive that it is this that not only 
makes us every day do such things as are fatal to us ; but 
(which is most deplorable) engages us to ask our own un- 
happiness of God : and this is what no man can tell how 
to imagine. There is no person but thinks himself cajoable 
of asking such things of God as are very useful for him; 
to desire such things as are pernicious to him, would 
not be a prayer, but a real imprecation. 

Socrat. Hold a little, my dear Alcibiades ; it is possible 
there may be found some person wiser than you and I, 
who might with good reason reprehend us, and tell us, 
we are very much in the wrong thus to blame ignorance, 
without adding what sort of ignorance it is that we con- 
demn, and in what it consists. For if ignorance is bad in 
some things, it is good in others. 

Alcib. How do you say, Socrates ? Is there anything 
of what kind soever, of which it is more useful to be ig- 
norant, than to know it ? 

Socrat. So I think, and you think otherwise. 

Alcib. That I do, I protest. 

Socrat. Yet I shall never believe you capable of being 
irritated against your mother with the fury either of an 
Orestes, or an Alcmeeon, or any the like parricides, if there 
have been any others who have committed the same crimes. 

Alcib. Ah ! Socrates, I entreat you in the name of God, 
alter your discourse. 

Socrat. Alcibiades, you are to blame to desire that of 
me ; of me, I say, who tell you, I do not think you capable 
of committing those crimes. You could do no more if I 
accused you of them. But since these actions appear so 
abominable to you, that one must not name them unless 
there be an absolute necessity of it ; with all my heart, 
so let it be. I only ask you, do you think, if Orestes had 
been in his senses, and had known what was good and 
useful for him, he would not have dared to do what he did? 

Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. Neither he nor any body else would have done it. 
Alcib. That is most certain. 

Socrat. Then in my opinion this ignorance of what is 
good and useful, is a great evil. 
Alcib. I am of the same mind. 



THE SECOND ALCIBIADES ; OR, 



Socrat. And that either in Orestes, or any other person. 

Alcib. I am fully persuaded of that. 

Soc?*at. Let us examine this matter yet a little farther. 
Suppose then it had formerly come into your head on a 
sudden, that it was a very good and laudable action for 
you to go and kill Pericles,* your tutor and friend ; and 
that you had taken a dagger, and gone directly to his 
door, to ask if he were at home, as having a design against 
him alone, and not any other ; and that you had been 
told he was within. I do not mean by this, that you could 
ever have been capable of committing so horrible an ac- 
tion ; but I make this supposition, to show you, that there 
is nothing hinders, but a man who knows not what is 
comely and honourable, may be in a disposition of taking 
that for very good which is in itself very evil : do not you 
think so as well as I? 

Alcib. I am perfectly of the same mind. 

Socrat. To go on then : supposing you had been told 
Pericles was at home, and you had gone in, and seen him, 
but not known him, and imagined that you saw somebody 
else ; would you have had the boldness to kill him? No, 
certainly, for your design would have been only against 
him ; and every time you had been at his house on the 
same design, and had mistaken him for another, you would 
not have done him the least injury. 

* The Latin interpreters have translated this passage, as if Plato 
had said, " If it should come into your head of a sudden to go and 
kill Pericles, your tutor and friend f not considering that they make 
Plato fall into a very ridiculous fault. For to speak thus, Pericles 
must have heen still living. And Plato had been saying, that 
Archelaus, king of Macedonia, had been assassinated ; and we know 
Pericles died twenty years before. How, then, shall this contradic- 
tion be reconciled? how shall we secure Plato from this fault of 
which he is not guilty, seeing he speaks the contrary in Gorgias 
andTheages? There is no great difficulty in the matter; it is only 
to translate, as the Greek terms will bear, " If it had formerlycome 
into your head on a sudden that is, if while Pericles was living, 
&c. By this means we not only prevent a great mistake, in regard 
of the time, but also escape a great fault against the rules of decency. 
For that Pericles should be yet alive when Socrates speaks thus to 
Alcibiades, is a hard and odious supposition : but supposing Pericles 
to be dead, it has not the same harshness in it. Athenseus would 
not have forgot to improve this passage to strengthen his chicanery 
against Plato's Gorgias, if he had not very well understood it would 
bear another interpretation besides that given it by his translators. 



OF PRAYER. 



89 



Alcib. That is very certain. 

Socrat. What then ? Do you think Orestes would have 
laid his parricidal hands on his mother, if he had mistaken 
her for another ? 

Alcib. No, doubtless. 

Socrat. For he did not design to kill the first woman 
he met, nor the mother of this or that person; but had a 
mind to kill his own mother. 

Alcib. You say right. 

Socrat. Then this sort of ignorance is very good for 
those that are in such a disposition of mind as his, and 
have such kind of fancies in their head. 

Alcib. So I think. 

Soci'at. By this then you plainly see, that on some occa- 
sions, and in some persons whose minds are disposed after 
a certain manner, ignorance is a good, and not an evil, 
as you just now supposed. 

Alcib. I perceive it very well. 

Socrat. If you will take the pains to examine what I am 
now going to say, how strange soever it may at first seem 
to you, it may be you will be of the same mind with me. 

Alcib. Well, Socrates, what is it? 

Socrat. It is true, that possibly, all the sciences with- 
out the knowledge of that which is very good, are seldom 
of use to those that possess them ; nay, most commonly 
are pernicious to them. Follow me a little in your thoughts, 
I intreat you. When we are about to say or do any thing, 
is it not altogether necessary either that we really know 
what we are gohig to do or say, or at least that we think 
we know it ? 

Alcib. Without doubt. 

Socrat. According to this principle, the orators who every 
day advise the people, give them advice about what they 
know, or at least think they know. Some give them 
counsel about peace and war, others about the walls that 
ought to be built, about the fortifications, gates, and 
arsenals. In a word, all that the city does for itself, or 
against another city, is not done but by the advice of 
orators. 

Alcib. It is true. 

Socrat. Observe well what follows, and see if I can finish 

i 2 



DO 



THE SECOND ALCIBIABES ; OR, 



my proof. Do not you divide the people into wise men 
and fools? 
Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. Do not you call the greatest number fools, and 

the least wise men ? 
Alcib. Yes. 

Socrat. Is it not with reference to something that you 
call them so ? 

Alcib. Most certainly. 

Socrat. Do you then call him a wise man, who can give 
this counsel without knowing what is best, or in what time 
it is best? 

Alcib. No, certainly. 

Socrat. Nor do you call him wise, who can make w T ar, 
but knows not when or how, nor how long it is best so 
to do? 

Alcib. No, not I. 

Socrat. Neither do you call those magistrates wise, who 
know how to put to death, to fine, and to banish ; and yet 
know not when or on what occasion these punishments 
are best and most just. 

Alcib. No, indeed. 

Socrat. Well, then, when any one Knows well how to do 
all these things, and these sciences are accompanied with 
the knowledge of that which is very good, (and this is the 
same with the knowledge of that which is very useful, as 
you have granted) we call this man wise, and say he is 
very capable to advise and conduct himself, and govern the 
commonwealth. And we say directly the contrary of him 
who does not add the knowledge of that which is good to 
these sciences. 

Alcib. This must be granted. 

Socrat. When a man knows how to mount a horse,* to 
draw a bow, to wrestle, in a word to perform any of the 
like exercises, or is well instructed in any other art ; how 
do you call him, when he knows perfectly well what is most 
conformable to the art he professes ? Do not you call him 
an equery that employs himself in managing of horses, him 
a wrestler that makes it his business to wrestle, and him a 
musician who understands music, and so of the rest ? Do 

* He is going to prove that to be skilful in the art a man professes, 
Is not sufficient to merit the name of a wise man. 



OF PRAYER. 



91 



not you give them all such names as are derived from their 
art, and are suitable to it ? or do you give them other 
appellations ? 

Alcib. We give them only such names as are taken 
from their art. 

Socrat. Do you think it is of absolute necessity that he 
who well understands the art of which he makes profes- 
sion, should also be a wise man ; or shall we say he may 
be far from that character? 

Alcib. He may be very far from it, Socrates. 

Socrat. What will you say of a republic composed of 
wrestlers, pipers, archers, and other such kind of people, 
mingled with such persons as we have been speaking of, 
some of whom know how to make war, others to condemn 
to death ; and with those statesmen, who are bloated with 
pride on account of their pretended capacity in politics ?* 
Supposing all these people to have knowledge of what is 
very good, and that there is but one single man among 
them all who knows either on what occasion or with whom 
each of these different arts ought to be used ? 

Alcib. I should say, Socrates, that would be a very ill 
composed co m monwealth. 

Socrat. Much more would you say so, when you saw 
every one full of ambition, and striving to engross the 
greatest part of affairs to himself ; that he might still ex- 
ceed himself, and become every day more powerful in that 
part of the government which is the most noble : and if 
you should at the same time see every one making horrible 
mistakes against the knowledge of what is very good, both 
on his own account and that of the commonwealth ; be- 
cause he conducts himself by opinion without understand- 
ing. This being the state of the case, should we not have 
great reason to say that such a republic cannot choose but 
be full of disorder and injustice ? 

Alcib. This is manifestly true. 

Socrat. Have we not agreed that it is absolutely neces- 
sary for us either to believe we know, or else really to know, 

* This is a subtile satire against the republic of the Athenians, in 
which all arts and sciences were seen to flourish, but the knowledge 
of what is very good was not to be found there ; and therefore no- 
thing but confusion and disorder was to be seen among them. 



92 



THE SECOND ALCIBIADES ; OR, 



what we are about to do or say without any farther deli- 
beration ? 

Alcib. That has been agreed between us. 

Socrat. Have we not likewise acknowledged, that when 
any man does that which he knows, or thinks he knows ; 
provided he possesses the knowledge of that which is very 
g ood, great advantage hence accrues both to himself and 
to the state?* 

Alcib. "Who can doubt that ? 

Socrat. And that when it is otherwise, the contrary 
ensues ? 

Alcib. That is evident. 

Socrat. Do you still persist in the same sentiments ? 
Alcib. I do. 

Socrat. Have you not said, that the greatest number 
is that of fools, and that of wise men the least ? 

Alcib. Yes, and I say the same still. 

Socrat. Did we not upon this say, that the greatest num- 
ber keep at a distance from that which is good, because 
they usually abandon themselves to opinion without under- 
standing. 

Alcib. Yes, so we said. 

Socrat. Then it is useful for this great number to know 
nothing, and to believe they know nothing, because what 
they know, or believe they know, they will be willing to 
put in execution ; and in so doing, instead of gaining any 
advantage, they will receive great prejudice. 

Alcib. You say true. 

Socrat. By this then you see very well, that I had reason 
when I told you just now, that possibly all sciences, with- 
out the knowledge of what is very good, were seldom useful 
to those that possessed them, but were most commonly very 
pernicious to them. Were you not then sensible of this truth ? 

Alcib. I was not then sensible of it, Socrates, but now 
I am. 

Socrat. Then a city winch would be well governed, and 
a soul that would live well, applies itself only to this science ; 
as a sick man commits himself to his physician ; and as a 
sailor, that would arrive safe at his port, obeys his pilot. 

* The knowledge of that which is very good conducts and directs 
us not only in the things we know, but also in those we know not. 



OF PRAYER. 



93 



Without this, the greater fortune, men or states enjoy, 
the greater crimes will they commit,* either to acquire 
riches, or to augment their power, or satiate their passions. 
He that possesses all the arts and sciences, and is destitute 
of this, will be driven about and tossed by each of them, 
and be really battered with a furious tempest ; and having 
neither helm nor pilot, it is impossible he should go very 
far, and his ruin must needs be near. Methinks what the 
poet speaks of one whom he would dispraise, may be ap- 
plied to him : " He knew (says he) many things, but 
knew them all amiss. "f 

Alcih. How can one make such an application as this, 
Socrates ? for my part I do not think there is any justness 
in it. 

Socrat. On the contrary, I say there is a great deal of 
justness in it. For, my dear Alcibiades, it is a sort of 
enigma. Homer and the other poets are full of them. For 
all poesy is naturally enigmatic, but it is not given to every 
man to penetrate those obscurities : and if, besides its be- 
ing enigmatic, it be handled by envious poets, who, instead 
of discovering their wisdom to us, only seek to hide it 
from us ; it is then almost impossible to sound their 
thoughts. But you will never accuse Homer, the most 
wise and divine poet, of being ignorant that it is impossible 

* This is one of the most difficult places in Plato; Marsilius 
Ficinus and De Serres have translated it very ill, and have rather 
obscured than interpreted it. However, Ficinus suspected that it 
was corrupted, though he could not correct it. I am of opinion, 
that we should read n'zv for /boj, and ye for yap. But that is not all, 
the principal fault in the text consists in the word ipvxrjQ, which 
makes a very ill sense ; we must therefore necessarily read tvxvg, 
and take away the point. Plato's sense is, that without the know- 
ledge of what is very good, the greater fortune a soul or a city 
enjoys, the greater crimes will they commit to satiate their passions. 
The corruption came from the word ipvxrjv, which is three or four 
lines higher. But Plato speaks no more of the soul than he does 
of the city, and consequently could not repeat \pvxvG' He certainly 
wrote r^x^c, and this mode of speech kirovo'icq to rrjg rv%??c is very 
elegant, quo magis fortuna affiaverit, properly, the more Fortune 
blows on their poop. The beauty of this principle, and the truth 
which it contains, prove the necessity of restoring the sense after 
this manner: The greater fortune wicked men have, the greater 
sins do they commit. 

t Or thus : To a great sum his knowledge did amount, 
But ^11 he knew turned to an ill account. 



94 



THE SECOND ALCIBIADES ; OR, 



to know amiss what one knows; it is he that says of 
Margites, that " He knew many things, but knew them all 
amiss and he speaks enigmatically, for he puts [he 
knew] for his learning, and [amiss] for unhappy ; which 
terms could not well enter into the composition of his 
verse : but what he certainly meant by it, is, that Margites 
had a great deal of learning and knowledge, and that this 
was an unhappy or unfortunate knowledge to him. If this 
knowledge was unfortunate to him, he must needs have 
been a poor man, if we will adhere to what has been said. 

Alcib. So I think, Socrates; I should scarce yield to the 
most evident truths, if I should not grant that. 

Socrat. You have reason. But, Alcibiades, I entreat 
you, let us assure ourselves of the truth. You see how 
many doubts and uncertainties present themselves. You 
have your share of them, for you go sometimes to the 
right, and sometimes to the left. That which seems true 
to you this minute, you receive as such ; and the very next 
moment it is quite another thing in your opinion. Let us 
endeavour to know where to fix. And as I have already 
said, if the God to whom you are going to pray, should 
suddenly appear to you, and should ask you before you 
have begun your prayers, if you would be satisfied that he 
should grant you some one of those things we first spoke 
of ; or rather supposing he should permit you to make 
your request, which would you think most safe and advan- 
tageous to you, whether to receive what he should give you, 
or to obtain what you should ask of him ? 

Alcib. I solemnly protest, Socrates, I know not how to 
answer you : for nothing seems to me to be more foolish, 
and more to be avoided with the greatest care, than to 
run the risk of asking real evils of God, while one thinks 
he is asking true goods of him, and thereby to expose 
one's self, as you have very well said, to retract the next 

* Homer made a poem against one Margites, who knew much, 
and yet spent his life in idleness and debauchery; a certain sign 
that he did not possess the knowledge of what is very good. This 
poem, which was made up of a mixture of heroic and iambic 
verses, is lost : in which Homer turned the pungent railleries of 
those satirical pieces which were in vogue before him, into pleasant 
stories and jests ; and by this means was the first that gave us any 
strokes of comedy. See the fifth chapter of Aristotle of the Art of 
Poetry. 



OF PRAYER. 



95 



moment, and make new requests quite contrary to the 
former. 

Socrat. Is it not for this reason that that ancient poet 
I was speaking of in the beginning of our discourse, and 
who understood these things better than we, would have us 
end our prayers with these words ; " And keep evil things 
from us, even when we ask them of thee ?" 

Alcib. So I suppose. 

Socrat. In like manner the Lacedemonians, whether 
they imitate this poet, or have of themselves found out this 
truth, make both in public and private a prayer much like 
it. For they desire the Gods " to give them' that which is 
comely with that which is good." They were never heard 
to make any other prayer ; and yet they are as happy as 
any people in the world : and if they have sometimes seen 
an interruption in the course of their successes, still none 
can justly blame their prayer. For the Gods are free, 
and it depends on their will, whether they will grant what 
is desired of them, or give what is contrary to it. And on 
this occasion I will tell you another story, which I have 
often heard related by some ancient people. The Athe- 
nians being engaged formerly in a war with the Lacedemo- 
nians, it happened that they were always beat in every 
battle that was fought. Being deeply concerned at this 
misfortune, and seeking means to divert those miseries 
that impended, at last, after divers consultations, they 
thought it the best expedient to send to the oracle of Am- 
nion, to enquire of him the reason of their misfortunes, and 
to pray him to tell them why the Gods granted victory ra- 
ther to the Lacedemonians than to the Athenians, who 
every day offered them a great number of choicer sacrifices, 
who enriched their temples with nobler offerings, who an- 
nually made more magnificent and more devout proces- 
sions in their honour; and, in a word, who themselves 
alone were at greater expence in their worship than all 
the rest of the Greeks together. Whereas (said they) the 
Lacedemonians have no regard to these ceremonies, they 
are so covetous in reference to the Gods, that they offer 
them mutilated victims, and are at much less charge in 
every thing that concerns religion than the Athenians, 
though they infinitely exceed them in riches. After they 
had thus presented their reasons, they asked how those 

I 



96 



THE SECOND ALCIEIADES; 0#, 



miseries that pressed their city might be diverted. The 
prophet gave them no immediate answer, for doubtless the 
God would not permit him to give any. But after some 
time, recalling the ambassador, he told him, <s This is the 
answer Ammon gives the Athenians ; he loves the benedic- 
tions of the Lacedemonians much more than all the sacri- 
fices of the Greeks. 5 ' This was all he said. By the bene- 
dictions of the Lacedemonians, I suppose he only meant 
their prayers, which indeed are more perfect than those of 
any other people. For as for the rest of the Greeks, some 
of them indeed offered bulls with gilded horns, and others 
consecrated rich oblations to the Gods ; but at the same 
time requested in their prayers whatever their passions sug- 
gested, without informing themselves, whether what they 
asked was good or evil. But the Gods, who hear their 
blasphemies, are not pleased with those magnificent pro- 
cessions, nor do they accept their costly sacrifices. There- 
fore nothing requires so much precaution and attention as 
prayer : to know what we ought to say, and what not. 
You will find many other things in Homer, which amount 
to the same thing with the story I have been telling you. 
For he says, " the Trojans, when they built a fort, offered 
whole hecatombs to the immortal Gods, that the winds 
carried a pleasant odour from earth to heaven ; and yet 
that the Gods refused to accept all this, but rejected it, 
because they had an aversion to the sacred city of Troy, 
for Priamus, and all his people." So that it was to no pur- 
pose for them to offer sacrifices, and make presents to the 
Gods that hated them ; for the Deity is not to be corrupted 
by bribes, like a covetous usurer. And we should be fools, 
if we should pretend by this means to render ourselves 
more agreeable to the Gods than the Lacedemonians. For 
it would be a very horrible and most unworthy thing, for 
the Gods to have more regard to our gifts and sacrifices, 
than to our souls, in distinguishing those that are truly 
holy and righteous. But they have regard only to our 
souls, and not at all to our processions, or sacrifices, upon 
which the most profligate persons, and those cities whose 
sins both against God and man arise to the greatest height, 
commonly value themselves more than good men. Nor do 
the Gods ever suffer themselves to be biassed by presents, 
but despise all those things, as the God himself, and his 
prophet, have assured us. 



OF PRAYER. 



97 



So that it seems plain, that nothing is so precious as 
wisdom and justice, both in the sight of Gods and 
men, And none are truly just and truly wise, but 
those who both in their words and actions know how to 
acquit themselves of their duty both to the Gods and to 
men. Therefore I would now willingly know what your 
sentiments are about what I have been saying. 

Alcib. For my part, Socrates, I cannot choose but con- 
form my sentiments in this matter to yours, and those of 
that God of whom we have been speaking. Would it be 
reasonable for me to go about to oppose my weak under- 
standing to that of a God, and to contradict his oracles ? 

Socrat. Do not you remember you told me you were in 
great perplexity, for fear you should unawares pray for 
evil things while you designed only to ask for good ? 

Alcib. I remember it very well, Socrates. 

Socrat. You see it is not at all safe for you to go and 
pray in the temple, in the condition you are in, lest the 
God hearing your blasphemies should reject your sacrifices ; 
and to punish you, should give you what you would not 
have. I am therefore of the mind that it is much better 
for you to be silent, for I know you very well. Your 
pride, for that is the softest name I can give your impru- 
dence ; your pride, I say, probably will not permit you 
to use the prayer of the Lacedemonians.* Therefore it is 
altogether necessary you should wait for some person to 
teach you how you ought to behave yourself both towards 
the Gods and men. 

Alcib. And when will that time come, Socrates ? and 
who is he that will instruct me ? With what pleasure 
should I look upon him ! 

Socrat. He will do it who takes a true care of you.f 
But methinks, as we read in Homer, that Minerva dissi- 
pated the mist that covered Diomedes' eyes, and hindered 
him from distinguishing God from man, so it is necessary 
he should in the first place scatter the darkness that covers 
your soul, and afterwards give you those remedies that are 

* tl Sovereign of Nature grant us what is good, 
Be it or not, the subject of our prayers : 
Arid from thy suppliants vrhate'er is ill; 
Though supplicating for it, still avert." 
t That is God. 
K 



98 



THE SEECOND ALCIBIADES. 



necessary to put you in a condition of discerning good and 
evil ; for at present you know not how to make a difference 
between them. 

Alcib. Let him scatter then, let him destroy this dark- 
ness of mine, and whatever else he pleases ; I abandon 
myself to his conduct, and am very ready to obey all 
his commands, provided I may but be made better by them. 

Socrat. Do not doubt of that. For this governor I tell 
you of, has a singular affection for you. 

Alcib. I think I must defer my sacrifice to that time. 

Socrat. You have reason, it is more safe so to do than 
to run so great a risk. 

Alcib. Well then I will defer it, Socrates ; and to express 
my thankfulness for the good counsel you have given me, 
give me leave to place on your head this crown which 
I wear on mine. We will present other crowns to the Gods, 
and all the service we owe them, when I see that happy 
day ; it will not be long before that come, if they please. 

Socrat. I receive this favour with very great pleasure ; 
and shall always kindly accept whatever comes from you. 
And. as Creon, (in Euripides) seeing Tiresias approach him 
with a crown of gold, which was the first fruits of the 
spoils of the enemy, and with which the Athenians had 
honoured him for his art, said, " I take this crown, which 
is the sign of victory, for a good omen ; for you see we 
are also in a great storm of war so I must say, I take 
the honour I receive at your hand for a happy presage ; 
for I am in no less a tempest than Creon, while I am en- 
deavouring to gain the victory over all your admirers. 

* It is in Euripides' Phoenicians. 



THEAGES; OR, OF WISDOM. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

The ancients cited this Dialogue under the title of Wisdom, or 
that of Philosophy, as may be seen in Diogenes Laertius. But how 
old soever these titles are, they were given by philosophers that 
were unacquainted with the design of Socrates, who here proposes 
only to treat of the education of children, which is the basis and 
foundation of philosophy. As plants do not thrive well, unless in 
ground that is well prepared, and which has been variously manured, 
and also receives the benign influences of the heavens ; so virtues will 
not grow, unless in a soul well cultivated, and under the influences of 
the divine favour. On this good education, not only the happiness of 
families depends, but also that of cities, republics, and ail states ; 
this is what Socrates endeavours to maintain in this Dialogue. The 
young people of the best families of Athens, dazzled with the glory of 
Cimon, Themistocles, and Pericles \ and full of vain ambition, 
thought of nothing but of adhering to the sophists, who promised to 
make them very great politicians, and to put them into a capacity 
of governing the Athenians and their allies. Their parents were 
tinctured with the same folly : the wisest of them were those that 
feared the consequences of this ambition, and only discovered the 
dangers to which their children were exposed by the corruption of 
those that instructed youth. Socrates here discourses with a father 
and a son of this character. The son aims only to make himself a 
good prince ; and the father does not blame this ambition of his son, 
provided he avoided the corruption that reigned at that time. All the 
business is to find a good master. Socrates makes an admirable im- 
provement of this disposition of theirs, to shew, that one man can 
never teach another true wisdom, which alone makes men govern 
well ; but that the special favour of God is requisite to this purpose, 
without which all the endeavours of -masters and scholars prove 
useless ; and this he confirms by examples. This is the true subject 
of this Dialogue, in which we find divers surprising truths which 
shall be explained in their place. This conversation passed that year 
in which the Athenians were beat at Ephesus by Tisaphernes ; which 
was the fourth year of the 92nd Olympiad, 407 years before the birth 
of Christ. Plato, being 20 years of age, was then the disciple of 
Socrates. 

The character of tins Dialogue is the same wUh that of the two 
former. 



100 



THEAGES ; OR, 



DEMODOCUS, SOCRATES, THEAGES. 

Bemod. Socrates, I have a great mind to discourse 
with you a little in private, if you are at leisure ; and if 
you are not, I entreat you to take a little time for my 
sake, unless your business is very urgent. 

Soc. I have always leisure, and more to serve you than 
any other person. If you have a mind to discourse with 
me, I am ready for you. 

Bern. Shall we retire into the porch of the temple of 
Jupiter Eleutherius ? 

Soc. What you please. 

Bern. Let us go then, Socrates ; methinks animals, 
and even man himself, are like plants : for we who manure 
the earth, know by experience that it is easy to prepare all 
Ithings necessary, before we plant ; but when that which 
we have planted is come up, the care and pains we must 
take about it is very great and troublesome.* It is the same 
with men ; and I judge of others by myself. There is my 
son ; ever since he has been born, his education will not 
suffer me to rest one moment, but keeps me in continual 
fear. Without entering into any particular account of all 
the occasions of fear I have concerning him, I will tell 
you one which has but very lately appeared ; and that is, 
an ambition he has, which indeed is not dishonourable, 
but is a very nice and dangerous thing, and makes me 
afraid. He would fain fall upon the study of wisdom."f 
Probably some of his companions, and some young people 
of our town who frequent Athens, give him an account of 
some discourses they have heard, which have disturbed his 
brain. For he is so full of emulation, that he continually 
torments me with importunate entreaties, that I would 
give a piece of money to some sophist, to accomplish him. 
It is not the charge that I fear ; but I see this passion of 
his will expose him to great danger. Hitherto I have re- 

* In the original, Demodocus speaks like a good honest country- 
man, who is wholly taken up with husbandry : but I do not think 
it necessary to make my translation speak after that manner. 

f Wisdom is .a word that signifies divers things, as knowledge, 
skill, virtue. Plato, uses it for that science which teaches how to 
govern states. 



OF WISDOM. 



101 



strained him, by amusing him with good words ; but now 
•that I suppose I can be master of him no longer, I think 
the best course I can take, is to consent to let him take his 
own course, for fear the conversation he may have in secret, 
and without my knowledge, should corrupt him. There- 
fore I am now come to Athens, to put him under the tui- 
tion of some sophist : and it is very happy that I have met 
you ; for you are the person whom above all others I should 
wish to consult upon this affair. If therefore you have any 
advice to give me, I entreat it of you, and you are too just 
to refuse me. 

Soc. But have you not often heard, Demodocus, that advice 
is a sacred thing ? and if it is sacred in all other occasions of 
life, it is much more so in this ; for of all things on which 
a man can ask advice, there is nothing more divine than 
that which respects the education of children. First then, 
let you and I agree what it is precisely that you desire, and 
about what we are to consult, lest I understand one thing, 
and you another, (as it may often happen) and so at the 
end of our discourse we both appear ridiculous to our- 
selves, for having talked so long without understanding 
one another. 

Bern. You say right, Socrates. 

Soc. I say right, ay certainly And yet 

I do not say so right as I thought, but retract in part ; for 
it comes into my mind, that this young man may have a 
desire very different from that which we think he has ; 
which would render us still more ridiculous for consulting 
about quite another thing than the object of his wishes. 
It is best therefore to begin with him, and ask him, what 
it is that he desires ? 

Bern. Yes, certainly, that is the best way. 

Soc. But I pray, what is this fine young man's name? 

Bern. His name is Theages. 

Soc. "What an excellent and sacred name have you 
given him ! * Well, then, Theages, you desire to become 
wise, and you urge your father to find you a man whose 
conversation may furnish you with that wisdom with which 
you are so much in love ? 

* The Athenians were very careful to give fine names to their 
children ; but all names are false, when they do not describe the 
character of those to whom thev are given. 

K 2 



102 



THEAGES; OR, 



The. Yes. 

Soc. Who are those persons you call wise? Are they 
such as are skilful in what they have learnt, or the igno- 
rant ? 

The. Such as are skilful. 

Soc. What ! has not your father caused you to be in- 
structed in every thing that the children of our best citi- 
zens learn; as to read, to play on musical instruments, to 
wrestle, and to perform all other exercises ? 

The. Yes, my father has caused me to be taught all this. 

Soc. Well then ; and do you think there is any other 
science in which your father is obliged to cause you to be 
instructed. 

The. Yes, without doubt. 

Soc. What science is that ? Tell me, that I may render 
you some service in the matter. 

The. My father very well knows it, for I have often 
told him of it ; but he is pleased to speak after such a 
manner to you, as if he did not know what I desired. There 
is no day passes but he disputes with me, and still refuses 
to commit me to the care of some skilful man. 

Soc. But all that you have hitherto said to him, has 
passed only between you two. Now therefore, take me 
for an arbitrator; and before me declare what science it is 
you have a mind to attain. For if you were willing to 
learn that science which teaches how to steer ships, and I 
should ask you, Theages, what science is it in which you 
complain your father is not willing to have you instructed ; 
would you not immediately answer me, that it is the 
science of pilots ? 

The. Yes, doubtless. 

Soc. And if you were willing to learn the art which 
teaches how to drive chariots, would you not in like manner 
tell me, it is that of charioteers ? 

The. I should tell you the very same thing. 

Soc. Has that, of which you are so desirous, a name, or 
has it none? 

The. I believe it has a name. 

Soc. Do you know it then, without knowing the name 
of it? 

The. I know it, and I know the name of it too. 
Soc. Tell me what it is then. 



OF WISDOM. 



103 



The. What other name can it have than that of 
science?* 

Soc. But is not the art of charioteers also a science ? 
What ! do you think it a piece of ignorance ? 
The. No, certainly. 

Soc. Then it is a science : and what is the use of it ? 
Does it not teach us to guide the horses that are fastened 
to a chariot ? 

The. Most certainly. 

Soc. And is not the art of pilots also a science ? 
The. So I think. 

Soc. Is it not that which teaches us how to guide ships? 
The. The very same. 

Soc. Well, what is that which you have a mind to 
learn? and what does that teach us to govern? 
The. I think it teaches us to govern men. 
Soc. What, sick men ? 
The. No. 

Soc. For that belongs to the medicinal art, does it not ? 
The. It does. 

Soc. Well then, does it teach us to regulate the choir 
of musicians? 
The. Not at all. 

Soc. For that properly appertains to music 
The. True. 

Soc. But does it teach us to govern those who perform 
the exercises? 

The. No more than the others. 

Soc. For that belongs to the gymnastic art. What sort 
of men then does it teach us to govern ? Explain yourself 
clearly, as I have done on the other sciences. 

The. It teaches us to govern those who are in the city ? 

Soc. But are there not sick men too in the city ? 

The. Without doubt there are ; but I do not mean them : 
I speak of the other citizens. 

Soc. Let us see if I understand well of what art you 
speak. I think you do not speak of that which teaches us 
to govern mowers, vine-dressers, ploughmen sowers, and 
threshers : for that belongs to husbandry. Nor do you 
speak of that which teaches to govern those that handle 

* This name is too general, and does not sufficiently explain the 
thing enquired after, as Socrates is going to shew. 



104 



THEAGES ; OK, 



the saw, the plane, and the lathe ; for that belongs to the 
joiners art. But you speak of the art that teaches to go- 
vern, not only these, but all other artificers, and all private 
persons, both men and women : perhaps this is the science 
you mean. 

The. It is the very same : I had no design to speak of 
any other. 

Soc. But I pray, answer me, did iEgisthus who killed 
Agamemnon at Argos, govern those sorts of people, arti- 
ficers and private persons, both men and women, or others ? 

The. He governed only such as these : are there anv 
other to be governed ? 

Soc. Did not Peleus, the son of iEacus, likewise go- 
vern these at Phthia ? And did not Periander, the son of 
Cypselus, rule them at Corinth? Did not Archelaus, the 
son of Perdiccas, who some few years * since ascended the 
throne of Macedonia, also command these sorts of people ? 
And did not Hippias, f the son of Pisistratus, who governs 
in this city, rule our citizens in like manner ? 

The. Who doubts it? 

Soc. Tell me, what do you call Basis, J the Sybil; 
and our Amphilytus, when you would denote their pro- 
fession ? 

The, What should we call them but diviners? 

Soc. Very well. Answer me after the same manner 
about these : What do you call Hippias and Periander, 
when you would denote their profession by the dominion 

they exercise ? 

* It was five or six years before. He was killed at the end of this 
very year. 

t Hippias, the son of Pisistratus, was tyrant of Athens four years; 
according to Thucydides, he succeeded his father, and not Hippar- 
chus. After he had reigned four years, he was banished ; and 
twenty years after his exile, was killed at the battle of Marathon, 
where he bore arms for the Persians. 

i Basis was a prophet, who, long before Xerxes made a descent 
into Greece, predicted to the people all that should befall them. 
Herodotus relates some of his prophecies in his eighth book, and 
looks upon them to be so formal and plain, since their accomplish- 
ment, that he says he neither dares accuse these oracles of falsehood 
himself, nor suffer ethers so to do, or to refuse to give credit to 
them. Aristophanes speaks of this diviner in his comedy of Peace. 
As for Ainphilytus, I know nothing of him. 



OF WISDOM. 



105 



The. Tyrants, I think ; what other name can we give 
them ? 

Soc. Then every one who desires to command all the 
people in this city, desires to acquire a dominion like theirs, 
a tyrannical dominion, and to hecome a tyrant. 

The. I think so. 

Soc. This then is the science with which you are so 
much in love. 

The. That is a natural consequence of what I have said. 
Soc. You are a villain ! Do you desire to become our 
tyrant; and have the boldness to complain that your 
father does not put you under the conduct of some person 
that may qimlify you for tyranny ? And you, Demodo- 
cus, who know your son's ambition,* and have wherewith 
to send him to be accomplished in this fine science which 
he desires ; are you not ashamed to envy him this happi- 
ness, and not to provide him some great master? But 
since he now complains of you, as you see, in my pre- 
sence ; let us consider whither to send him, and if we 
know any one whose conversation may make him an 
accomplished tyrant. 

Bern. Socrates, I beg of you for God's sake, let us 
consider it together.f For on such an occasion as this, we 
have need of good advice. 

Soc. Hold a little, let us first know of him what he 
thinks of the matter. 

Bern. You may ask him what you please. 
Soc. Theages, if we had to do with Euripides, who 
somewhere says, 

Wise are the tyrants, who with the wise converse ; 
And should ask him, Euripides, in what do you say tyrants 
become wise by the conversation of wise men ? If, in- 
stead of that, he should tell us, 

Wise are the ploughmen, who with the wise converse; 
we should not fail to ask him, In what are the plough- 

* This is an irony of Socrates, founded on what Demodocus said 
at the beginning of this discourse, viz. — that his son had an ambi- 
tion that was not dishonourable. Marsilius Ficinus and De Serres 
were equally mistaken here ; and not perceiving the irony, cor- 
rupted this passage by their translation. 

f Demodocus takes this in earnest, which Socrates spoke ironi- 
cally. 



106 



THEAGES ; OR, 



men rendered wise ? Do you think he would give us any 
other answer, than that they are rendered wise in that 
which belongs to husbandry ? 

The. No, he would give no other answer. 

Soc. And if he should tell us, 

Wise are the cooks, who with the wise converse ; 

and we should ask him wherein they are made wise : 
What do you think he would answer? Would he not say, 
they are made wise in the art of cookery? 

The. Without doubt. 

Soc. And if he should say, 

Wise are the wrestlers, who with the wise converse : 

Would he not upon the repetition of the same question 
give us the same reply, that they are made expert in the 
art of wrestling ? 

The. Yes, certainly. 

Soc. This being so, since he tells us, 

Wise are the tyrants, who with the wise converse ; 

if we should ask him, Euripides, in what are those tyrants 
rendered wise ? What answer do you think he would make 
us ? In what would he make this wisdom consist ? 

The. I protest I cannot tell. 

Soc. Shall I tell you then ? 

The. With all my heart, if you please. 

Soc. He would say they were made wise in that art, 
which Anacreon tells us, the wise Callicrete * knew per- 
fectly well. Do not you remember his songs ? 

The. I do remember. 

Soc. Well, then, do not you desire to be committed 
to the care of some man, who is of the same profession 
with this virgin of Cyane, and knows, like her, the art of 
forming tyrants, that you may become our tyrant, and 
that of the whole city? 

The. Socrates, you have played and jested on me a great 
while. 

Soc. How ! Do not you say you desire to acquire that 

* This was a virgin, who employed herself in teaching jjolitics, as 
Aspasia, Diotima, and some others did after her. The verses which 
Anacreon made on her, are lost. 



OF WISDOM. 



107 



science which will teach you to govern all the citizens ? 
Can you govern them without becoming their tyrant ? 

The. I could heartily wish to become the tyrant of all 
mankind, and if that be too much, at least of the greatest 
part of them ; and I believe, Socrates, you would have the 
same ambition as well as other men. Nay, perhaps it would 
so little content you to be a tyrant, that you would be a God; * 
but I did not tell you that that was the thing I desired. 

Soc. What is it you desire ? Do not you say you de- 
sire to govern citizens? 

The. Not to govern them by force as tyrants do ; but 
by their own consent, as those great men have done, 
whom we have had in this city. 

Soc. What ! as Themistocles, Pericles, Cimon, and other 
great politicians have done ? 

The. Yes, 

Soc. Well, then, if you had a mind to become very expert 
in the art of horsemanship, to what men do you think you 
ought to apply yourself to become a good horseman ? 
Would you go to any other than equerries ? 

The. No, certainly. 

Soc. Would you not make choice of the best equer- 
ries : those that have the greatest number of horses, and 
such as ride not only their own horses, but those of other 
men? 

The. Without doubt, I should choose such. 

Soc. And if you would become very expert at shoot- 
ing, would you not address yourself to the best archers ; 
and to such as best know how to use all sorts of bows and 
arrows ? 

The. Yes, certainly. 

Soc. Tell me then, since you have a mind to become ex- 
pert in politics, do you think you can acquire this skill in 
addressing yourself to any beside politicians, who have a 
depth of judgment in this science, and know how to con- 
duct, not only their own city, but many others, as well of 
the Greeks, as the barbarians ? Or, do you think by con- 
versing with any other sort of persons, to become as expert 

jji as these great men ? 

I 

* This is founded on what Socrates was wont to say, thai men 
should labour %o make themselves like God. 



108 



THEAGES; OR, 



The. Socrates, 1 have heard talk of some discourses of 
yours ; which you made (as it is said) to shew, that the 
sons of these great politicians were no better than the sons 
of coblers ; and as far as I can judge, it is an undeniable 
truth. I should therefore be a great fool to believe that 
any one of them could give me his wisdom, which he did 
not communicate to his own son, and which he ought to 
have bestowed on him much rather, if he were capable of 
doing it, than on a stranger. * 

Soc. What would you do then, Theages, if you had a 
son that followed you so closely every day, telling you, he 
had a mind to be a great painter ? And complained con- 
tinually, that you who were his father, would not be at the 
least expense to satisfy his desire ; while on the other side 
he despised the most excellent masters, and refused to go 
to school to them to learn their art ? I say the same, if he 
had a mind to play on the flute, or to be an excellent 
harper : should you know any other way to gratify him, 
or any other people to send him to ; when he should re- 
fuse such masters ? 

The. For my part, I know not what could be done. 
Soc. This is exactly the same course that you take 
with your father. How then can you be surprised and 
complain, that he knows not what to do with you, nor 
where to send you to make you an accomplished man? 
For it lies wholly at your own door. If you desire, he will 
immediately put you under the conduct of our best mas- 
ters, and such as are most expert in politics. You have 
nothing to do but to choose your teacher ; they will ask 
nothing of you. So that you may save your money, and 
acquire with them more reputation among the people, f 
than you can obtain in the conversation of any other. 

The. Well then, Socrates, are not you likewise one of 
those great men ? If you will suffer me to attend you, it is 
enough, I will seek for no other master. 

* All those great politicians could not teach their children to be 
wise; a sure sign that wisdom cannot be taught. 1 There is nothing 
of it in man, but what God puts into him, as Socrates proves more at 
large in his Menon. 

t For the common people are very ill judges, and may bo easily 
deceived; they constantly take those men for the most wise and 
skilful, who are most bold and insolent. 



OF WISDOM. 



109 



Soc. What is that you say, Theages ? 

JDem. Ah, Socrates, my son has said very well, and you 
would do me a great kindness ! No, I have no greater 
happiness than to see my son pleased with your company; 
and that you are so good as to permit him to take this 
liberty. I am ashamed to say how much I desire it : but I 
entreat you both, for God's sake, you, Socrates, to receive 
my son ; and you, son, never to seek any other master 
than Socrates. By this means you will both deliver me 
from my greatest trouble and fears. For I am continually 
ready to die with fear, lest my son should fail into the 
hands of some person that will corrupt him. 

The. Well, Sir, you may lay aside your fears on my 
account ; if you are but happy enough to persuade Socrates, 
and engage him to be troubled with me. 

Bern. Son, you have reason. I will now apply myself 
to none but you, Socrates ; and not to amuse you with 
superfluous discourse, 1 am ready to give myself up to 
you, and ail that I have in the world. You may entirely 
dispose of me, if you will love my Theages, and procure 
him all that good, you are capable of doing him. 

Soc. I do not wonder, Demodocus, that you are so very 
importunate, if you believe your son may receive advantage 
from me ; for I know nothing about which a wise father 
ought to be more earnest and careful, than about what con- 
cerns his son, and what may make him a good man. 
But that which surprises me, and which I cannot compre- 
hend, is, how you came to think me capable of rendering 
you this great piece of service, and of forming him into a 
good citizen : and how he came to imagine me to be in a 
better condition of assisting him than his father ? For in 
the first place, you have lived longer in the world than I ; 
you have exercised the principal offices, and are the most 
considerable person in your town ; and none is more ho- 
noured or esteemed than you, in all the rest of the city.* 
Neither you nor your son see any of these advantages in 
me. But if Theages despises the conversation of our poli- 
ticians, and is looking after those persons, who promise to 
educate youth well ; we have here Prodicus of Ceos, Gorgias 
the Leontine, Polus of Agrigentum, and divers others, who 

* The city was composed of divert towns or boroughs. 
L 



110 



THEAGES; OR, 



are of so great ability, that as tliey go their rounds from 
city to city, they make a shift to persuade the young peo- 
ple of all the noblest and richest families, who might be 
instructed gratis by one of their own citizens, whom they 
would please to choose ; they make a shift, I say, to per- 
suade them to renounce those of their own city, and to 
adhere to them, though they must pay them great sums, 
and after all think themselves under great obligations to 
them. These are the men that you, and your son should 
choose, instead of thinking of me ; * for I know none of those 
polite and happy sciences : I would indeed understand 
them with all my heart ; but I have always professed to 
acknowledge, that I know nothing (as I may say) unless it 
be one little science which only respects love.f And I, 
for my part, dare boast of being more profound in this 
science, such as it is, than any of my predecessors, or those 
of the present age. 

The. Sir, you see very well, Socrates will not trouble 
himself with me ; if he would, I should very readily put 
myself under his conduct : but he jests, when he thus 
speaks of himself; for I know divers of my equals, and 
others of a more advanced age than mine, who, before they 
attended to him, had no great matter of merit ; but since 
they have enjoyed his conversation, are in a little time be- 
come the finest men in the world ; and far surpass those, 
to whom they were much inferior before. 

Soc. Theages, do you know how this comes to pass ? 

The. Yes, truly, I know it very well ; and if you were 
willing, I should soon be like those young men, and should 
have no occasion to envy them. 

Soc. You are mistaken, my dear Theages, and are very 
far from the truth ; which I am now going to inform you. 
I have had, by the favour of God, J ever since I was born, 

* This is an irony which Socrates uses to ridicule that excessive 
eagerness, with which the Athenians ran to these sophists, who were 
good for nothing but to corrupt their minds. 

t Socrates means, that he was only fit to inspire men with the 
love of wisdom. Without this love all is dead. This is a principle 
of life, and, as he elsewhere says, the most speedy, most certain, 
and most efficacious help which God has given men to bring them 
to supreme happiness. 

t I have had by the favour of God, the Greek says Qt'iq, fxolpq., 
by a divine lot, that is, to speak properly, by predestination; and 



OF WISDOM. 



Ill 



a genius that always accompanies and governs me. This 
genius is a voice, which, whenever it speaks to me, always 
diverts me from what 1 have a mind to do, and never 
prompts me to it. When any one of my friends commu- 
nicates any design to me, if I hear this voice, it is a certain 
sign that God does not approve of this design, but would 
divert him from it. I will name several persons to you, 
who are witnesses of what I say. You know the gallauf 
Charmides, Glaucon's son : he came to me one day, t£ 
acquaint me with a design he had to go and contend ai 
the Nemean games. * He had no sooner begun to com* 
municate this matter to me, but I heard the voice ; there 
fore I endeavoured to dissuade him from it, and said thus 
to him : As soon as you began to open your mouth, I heard 
the voice of the genius that guides me, therefore I entreat 
you not to go. He replied, Perhaps this voice advertises 
you that I shall not be crowned : but if I do not obtain 
the victory, I shall, however, exercise myself ; I shall en- 
gage with the rest, and that is enough. With these words 
he left me, and went to the afore-said exercises. You may 
know from his own mouth what befel him, and it well de- 
serves your notice. And if you would ask Clitomacus, the 
brother of Timarchus, f what this latter told him when he 
was going to die, for having despised the admonition of 
my good genius ; and again, what was said to him by 
Evathlus, who was so famous for running races, and who 
entertained Timarchus when he fled ; he would tell you, 
that Timarchus said to him in express terms 

The. What did he say to him, Socrates ? 

Soc. " I am going to die, because I would not believe 
Socrates. 5 ' And if you are curious to know the story, I 
will tell it you. When Timarchus rose from table with 
Philemon, the son of Philemonides, to go and kill Mcias 

consequently by the favour of God. fxdioa is here the same thing 
as k\)]ooq in the writings of St. Paul ; as that learned and pious per- 
son, who has lately made a small extract of Plato, has observed be- 
fore me, 

* One of the four famous games of Greece, which were celebrated 
once in three years near the city of Nemea in Peloponnesus, in 
honour of Archemorus. 

t I suppose this is Timarchus of Cheronea, who desired to be in- 
terred near one of Socrates' sons, who died a little before. I could 
never find any footstep of this history elsewhere. 



112 



THEAGES; OR, 



the son of Heroscaniander, for none but they two were in 
the conspiracy ; as he rose up, he said to me, What do 
you say to me, Socrates ? You have nothing to do, but to 
stay all here, and drink together ; I am obliged to be 
gone, but will return in a moment, if I can. Upon this I 
heard the voice, and immediately calling him back, said 
to him, I beg you would not go out, my good genius has 
given his wonted signal. Upon which he stayed : but some 
time after rises up again, and says, Socrates, I am going. 
The voice was repeated, and I stopped him again. In fine, 
because he would escape me, he rose up the third time, 
without saying any thing to me ; and taking his opportunity, 
when my thoughts were otherwise employed, he slipped 
out, and did that which brought him to his end : this was 
the reason he told his brother, he was going to die because 
he would not believe me. You may also learn from many 
of our citizens, what I told them about the expedition of 
Sicily, and the shocks that our army would receive there ; * 
but not to mention things that are past, of which you may 
be easily informed by those that know them perfectly well; 
you may now make trial of this signal, which my good 
genius commonly gives me, that you may see whether he 
speaks true. For when the brave Sannion went for the 
army, I heard this voice ; and he is now going with Thrasyl- 
lusf against Ephesus, and the other cities of Ionia : I am 
persuaded he will die there, or some misfortune will befall 
him ; and I very iiiuch fear that enterprise will not suc- 
ceed. X I have told you all this, to make you comprehend, 
that even for those who are willing to adhere to me, all 
depends on this good genius that governs me. For those 
whom he opposes can never derive any advantage from 
me : I cannot so much as have any conversation with them. 
There are many, whom he does not hinder me from see- 
ing; and yet these make no greater proficiency than the 
former : but those, whose conversation with me is approved 

* Under the government of Alcibiades and Nicias. 

f Tbrasyllus was chosen general with Thrasybulus, the fourth 
year of the 92nd Olympiad. 

$ Indeed the Athenians were beaten and repulsed at Ephesus. 
Xenoph. Book 1. Therefore Plutarch says in the Life of Alcibiades, 
that Tbrasyllus 's army was terribly galled under the walls o 
Ephesus ; and that in memory of this defeat, the Ephesians erected 
a trophy of brass, to the shame of the Athenians. 



OF WISDOM. 



11.1 



and favoured by this good genius, are such as you told me 
of just now, who, in a very little time, make a very great 
progress ; in some this progress is stable and permanent, 
and takes deep root ; and in others it is but for a time : 
that is, while they are with me, they advance after a sur- 
prising manner ; but they no sooner leave me, but they 
return to their former condition, and do not at all differ 
from the generality of nien.* This is what happened to 
Aristides, the son of Lysimachus, and grandson of Aristides : 
while he was with me, he made a very strange progress in 
a very short time ; but being obliged to go in some expe- 
dition, he embarked : at his return he found, that Thu- 
cydides, t the son of Melesias, and grandson of Thucydides, 
had been willing to be acquainted with me ; but it hap- 
pened the day before, I know not how, that he fell out 
with me for some words we had in disputing. Now 
Aristides, coming to see me, after the first compliments ; 
Socrates, says he, I am just now told, that Thucydides is 
angry with you, and acts with a great deal of haughtiness, 
as if he were somewhat more than ordinary. It is true, 
said L Ha ! replied he, what, does he no longer remem- 
ber what a slave he was before he saw you 1% It is very 
likely he has forgotten it, said I. Truly, Socrates, added 
he, a very ridiculous thing has happened to me. I pre- 
sently asked him what it was. It is this, said he : be- 
fore I went for the army, I was capable of discoursing with 
men of the greatest sense ; and was not inferior to any 
of them in conversation. I made as handsome a figure as 
another; and always kept company with the best and most 

* A remarkable passage. Here are four states of men. Some are 
rejected of God fur their wickedness, which cannot be hid from him; 
others are tolerated for a time : God gives them time to see, and 
learn, but they are not attentive. Others are approved, but these 
last succeed very differently : in some the good seed falling into good 
ground, takes deep root, and in others it flourishes but for a time; 
as the Gospel says of those who receive the word in stony places, or 
among thorns. This is the truth Socrates designs to teach in this 
place. 

t The grandson of Thucydides, who rivalled Pericles in the go- 
vernment. 

% Men are no better than vile slaves, before they have attended 
to philosophical discourses. 

L 2 



114 



THEAGES; OR, 



polite men I could find.* Whereas now it is quite con- 
trary : I carefully avoid them, I am so much ashamed 
of my ignorance. I asked him, if this faculty had left 
him suddenly, or gradually. He answered me, that it left 
him gradually. Well, how did you come by it ? said I : 
was it while you were learning something of me, or some 
other way ? I will tell you, Socrates, replied he, it is a 
thing that will seem incredible, but yet it is very true : 
I could never learn any thing of you, as you know very 
well.f However, I made some proficiency, if I was but in 
the same house where you were, J though not in the same 
room; when I could be in the same room, I advanced 
still more ; and whenever you spoke, I sensibly found my- 
self improve, yet more when I had my eyes upon you, than 
when I looked another way : but this progress was incom- 
parably greater, when I sat near you, and touched you, 
whereas now all this habit is utterly vanished. You see, 
then, Theages, said Socrates, what sort of conversation is to 
be had with me. If it please God, you will advance consi- 
derably, and in a very little time ; § otherwise your endea- 
vours will be fruitless. Judge then, if it be not more advan- 
tageous, and safe for you, to apply yourself to one of those 
masters, who are constantly successful with all their scho- 
lars, || than to follow me, with all the hazards you must run. 

The, I will tell you, Socrates, what we ought to do, in 
my opinion. ^Yhen we begin to live together, let us try 
this God that conducts us : if he approves our conversa- 

* Those who spent their time in discoursing on solid and agreeable 
subjects. 

t He means, he learned nothing that had made a deep and lasting 
impression on his mind; he had opinions only, and not science, 
since he had been by himself ; but was more knowing when he was 
with Socrates. 

% There are four degrees of light, according as you more or less 
approach wise men. It is something to lodge in the same house, it 
is a little more to be in the same room ; it is yet a greater advan- 
tage to have one's eyes always upon them, that so one may lose none 
of their words. Few persons are so confirmed in wisdom, that they 
can lose si^ht of them with impunity, and without great damage. 
These dirFerent degrees are still more remarkable in proportion to 
the approach we make to the divine wisdom. I believe this is all 
the mystery Socrates designs to teach here. 

$■ For all the good we either do, or receive, comes from God. 

|| A handsome banter of the sophists. 



OF WISDOM. 



115 



tion, I am at the top of my wishes : if he disapproves it, 
let us immediately consider what course to take, and whe- 
ther I ought to seek another master, or should endeavour 
to appease this God by prayers, by sacrifices, or any other 
expiations,* which our diviners teach. 

Bern. Do not oppose the young man's desires any longer. 
Theages speaks very well. 

Soc. If you think it is best to do so ; with all my heart. 
I agree with you. 

* The ways men use to appease the anger of God are prayers, 
sacrifices, and purifications. 



EUTYPHRON; OR, OF HOLINESS. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

In all times, and in all religions, there have been superstitious 
persons and hypocrites, Both these have offered almost the same 
injury to God, and equally hurt religion, Plato introduces one of 
these characters in this Dialogue ; for it is not easy to determine 
whether Eutyphron acts superstitiously or hypocritically : the former 
is most probable. Eutyphron goes about to accuse his own father of 
murder; this is a very unnatural btep : but on the other hand, it is 
the step of a man who consults not flesh and blood ; when the ques- 
tion is about doing an action so agreeable to God, as that of bringing 
a criminal to punishment. The business in hand therefore here, is 
to examine this action, to know if it be just. And Plato renews this 
discourse to ridicule the false religions of the Pagans, and the plu- 
rality of Gods, together with the rest of their fables : and to shew, 
that they who then passed for most intelligent persons in matters 
of religion, had indeed no knowledge of it, and rendered God only 
false worship, which dishonoured him. This is a great design, 
and he executes it with marvellous address, to which purpose 
the person against whom Socrates had disputed, serves extremely 
well. For Eutyphron was no ordinary man ; he was a diviner, 
and consequently clothed with the character, and trusted with 
the office of instructing others in religion. Nothing can be more 
ingenious and natural, than the beginning of this Dialogue, where 
Plato with great simplicity and modesty, and without the least 
appearance of affectation, discovers at first view not only the cha- 
racter of Eutyphron, and that of all superstitious persons, who by 
their religious mistakes are commonly carried to the commission of 
all sorts of injuries and crimes, but also that of Socrates, that of his 
persecutors, and in general, that of the Athenians. This Dialogue is 
full of excellent precepts of morality and religion. There is a great 
deal of ingenuity and subtilty in it. The lively descriptions, the fre- 
quent ironies, and satirical strokes admirably diversify it. Was there 
ever seen a more subtile piece of satire than that which Plato makes 
against Melitus? He is not content to mention his name, and in 
what part of the city he was born, but likewise draws his picture; 
and yet all these indications cannot make him known to Eutyphron. 
He that accuses Socrates, and thinks himself capable of reforming the 
commonwealth, by shewing what it is that corrupts youth, and over- 
throws religion, is neither known to him whom he accuses, nor to 
the ministers of that religion of which he pretends to be the great 
support. All the other like strokes will be easily observed in read- 
ing ; and the beauty of the character of the superstitious man, who 



EUTYPH RON . 117 

believes a thing only because he believes it, and who is always near 
the truth without ever attaining it, will be plainly discerned. The 
reader will see with pleasure, that Eutyphron is a good honest man, 
who has upright intentions, but is so full of respect for the fables that 
have been taught him, that he receives them all as sacred, without 
ever entertaining the least suspicion concerning them; he is so swelled 
with pride, and full of that precipitant confidence, which supersti- 
tion commonly inspires, that he publishes his visions as certain 
truths, not to be contradicted by any man. And Socrates, who makes 
as if he were willing to be instructed, receives his doctrine with re- 
fined ironies, and ambiguous railleries ; and at length confutes it with 
abundance of strength and solidity. 



EUTYPHRON, SOCRATES. 

Eut. What news, Socrates ? What I have you left the 
company of Lyceus, to come hither into the King's Porch?* 
You have no business to bring you hither, as I have. 

Soc. It is somewhat worse than business, Eutyphron ; 
the Athenians call it an accusation. 

Eut. How do you say? Then it is likely somebody 
accuses you, for I can never believe you would accuse any 
oncf 

Soc. You are in the right. 

Eut. Well, who is your accuser? 

Soc. I do not know very well myself, I take him to be 
a young man, who is not yet known ; I think his name is 
Melitus, he is of the town of Pittheus : if you remember 
any one of that quarter of the city, who bears that name, 
who has lank hair, a thin beard, and a crooked nose, that 
is the man. 

Eut. I do not remember any such person, Socrates ; 
but I pray what is the charge he brings against you ? 
Soc. What is the charge ! Why, it is such a one as 

* This King's Porch was a place on the right side of theCeramiqne, 
where one of the nine Archons, who was called the King, presided 
for the space of a year, and took cognizance of the affairs of orphans 
and of outrages that were committed against religion. 

t This is very remarkable. Eutyphron, who is going to accuse 
his own father, cannot believe that Socrates is capable of accusing 
any man. Plato makes use of the precipitancy of this superstitious 
man, or of the good opinion he has of himself, to insinuate that at 
Athens honest men never drove the trade of accusers. 



118 



eutyphron; or, 



shews him to he no ordinary man. For it is no little 
thing to he so knowing in such important and sublime 
matters, at an age so little advanced as his. He says he 
knows how our youth are corrupted, and who they are 
that corrupt them. He seems to be some able man, who 
has taken notice of my ignorance, and is come to accuse 
me for having corrupted his companions ; and to bring me 
before the city, as our common mother. And it must be 
confessed, he seems the only person that knows how to 
lay the foundations of good policy. For it is reasonable 
that a statesman should always begin with the education of 
young people, to render them as virtuous as may be ; as a 
good gardener bestows his first labour and care on the young 
plants, and then passes on to the other : Melitus, doubtless, 
takes the same course, and begins by cutting us up who 
hinder the young plants from sprouting and improving. 
After this, without doubt, he will extend his beneficent 
labours to those plants that are more advanced ; and will 
by this means do the greatest kindness imaginable to the 
city. This is what may be expected from a person that 
knows so well how to begin at the right end. 

Eut. I should be glad to see it, Socrates ; 'but I tremble 
for fear of the contrary ; for in attacking you, he seems 
to me to attack the city in the most sacred part of it : * but 
I pray tell me what he says you do, thus to corrupt young- 
people. 

Soc. He says, I do such things, as at first hearing must 
needs seem absurd and impossible ; for he says, I am a 
forger of Gods, that I introduce new Gods, and do not 
believe the old ones. This is the charge he has against me. 

Eut. I understand you ; it is because you say, you have 
a genius that daily guides you. Upon this he accuses you 
of introducing new opinions in religion, and comes to 
defame you in this court, well knowing, that the mob is 
always ready to receive these sort of calumnies. What do 
not I myself meet with, when in public assemblies I speak 

* The Greek says, in injuring you, he labours to ruin the city, 
and begins by the fire-side. It was a proverb in Greece, to begin 
by the fire-side, when they spoke of beginning with what was most 
excellent and sacred ; for the fire-side contained the domestic Gods. 
So that this was a great encomium of Socrates. Wise men are to 
cities what domestic Gods are to families. 



OF HOLINESS. 



119 



of divine things, and predict what shall come to pass ? 
They all laugh at me as a fool ; not that any one of the 
things I have foretold has failed of its accomplishment ; 
but the business is this, they envy all such as we are. 
And what remains for us to do ? The best way is never 
to trouble our heads about it ; but to go on still in our 
own way. 

Soc. My dear Eutyphron, is it so great an unhappiness 
to be laughed at? For at bottom I believe the Athenians 
do not much trouble their heads to examine whether a man 
has a great capacity or not, provided he does not go about 
to teach others what he knows. But I believe, if a man 
should make it his business to teach, they would be down- 
right angry, either out of envy, as you intimate, or for some 
other reason that we do not know. 

Eut. I have no mind to try to my cost, as you do, what 
sentiments they have of me. 

Soc. That is another matter ; it may be you are very 
reserved, and do not willingly communicate your wisdom 
to others ; * whereas I am afraid they think the love I bear 
to all mankind engages me too freely to teach them all I 
know, not only without asking a reward, but even by 
soliciting and pressing them to hear me. But if they 
would content themselves with laughing at me, as you say 
they do at you, it would be no unpleasant thing to spend 
some hours in this court in laughing and divertisement ; 
but if they take up the matter in earnest, none but your 
diviners know what will be the event of it. 

Eat. Perhaps you may sustain no damage, but may come 
to a happy issue in your business, as well as I in mine. 

Soc. Have you business here, then? Are you defendant 
or plaintiff? 

Eut. I am plaintiff. 

Soc. Whom do you prosecute ? 

Eut. If I should tell you, you would take me for a fool. 
Soc. How ! do you prosecute one that cannot be taken ? 
Has he got wings ? 

* Socrates makes use of the confession which he has drawn out of 
Eutyphron, to shew by this diviner the character of those who were 
set up to teach religion : they neither taught nor refuted any thing, 
but through fear left the people in superstition and ignorance. 



120 



EUTYPHRON; OR, 



Eut. The person I prosecute, instead of having wings, 
is so old that he can scarce walk. 
Soc. Who is he ? 
Eut. It is my father. 
Soc. Your father ! 
Eut. Yes, my father. 
Soc. Of what do you accuse him ? 
Eut. Of murder. 

Soc. Of murder, good God ! That is an accusation in- 
deed above the comprehension of the people, who will 
never conceive that it can be just ; an ordinary man would 
have enough to do to give it any tolerable colour. This 
is a thing that belongs only to him who is arrived at the 
highest pitch of wisdom.* 

Eut. You say true Socrates, it belongs only to s ich a 
person. 

Soc. Is it any one of your relations that your father has 
killed? without doubt it must be so; for you would not 
prosecute your father in a court of justice for the sake of a 
stranger. 

Eut. What an absurdity is that, Socrates, to think that 
in this respect there is any difference between a rela- 
tion and a stranger ! The thing is equal ; that which ought 
chiefly to be considered, is to examine whether the person 
that has killed him, did it justly or unjustly. If it was 
justly, he ought not to be put to any trouble ; but if un- 
justly, you are obliged to prosecute him, whatever friend- 
ship or relation there is between you. To have the least 
conversation with him, is to make yourself an accomplice 
of his crime ; and so it is not to prosecute him, or bring 
him to punishment, which alone can purify and expiate 
you both.f But to apprize you of the fact : the deceased 
was one of our farmers, who rented a piece of land of us 
when we dwelt at Naxus : this man having one day drank 
too much, fell into a passion, and was so transported with 
rage against one of our slaves, that he killed him. My 

* From this principle of Socrates, it follows by a just consequence, 
that it is only God's province to command and authorise such actions 
as appear severe and cruel to nature ; which is a great truth. 

t A false principle : for justice pushed too fur, becomes injustice 
and impiety. 



OF HOLINESS. 



121 



father ordered him to be cast into a deep pit with his 
hands and feet bound, and immediately sent hither to con- 
sult one of those who have the inspection of religious 
matters, and cases of conscience, to know what he should 
do with him;* and in the mean time neglected this poor 
prisoner, and left him without sustenance, as an assassin, 
whose life was of no consequence, so that he died : hun- 
ger, cold, and the weight of his chains, killed him, before 
the person, my father had sent, returned.— Now, our 
whole family fall upon me, because I, for the sake of an 
assassin accuse my father of murder, which they pretend 
he has not committed ; and if he had, they maintain I 
ought not to prosecute him, because the deceased was a 
villain and a murderer ; and besides, they say it is an im- 
pious action for a son to prefer a criminal process against 
his father : so blind are they about divine things, and so 
incapable of discerning what is profane and impious, from 
that which is just and holy. 

Soc. But, I pray, Eutyphron, do you yourself think you 
so accurately understand all divine things, and that you 
can so precisely distinguish between what is holy and what 
is profane, that the state of the case being as you say, you 
can prosecute your father without fearing to commit an 
impious action ? 

Eut. Certainly Eutyphron would scarce have any ad- 
vantage above other men, if he did not understand all 
these things perfectly well. 

Soc. 0 admirable Eutyphron, I see then the best course 
I can take is to become your disciple, and before the de- 
termination of my process, to let Melitus know : that I 
have hitherto looked upon it as the greatest advantage in 
the world, to have a good understanding in divine things, 
and to be well instructed in religion. But now, seeing he 
accuses me of falling into error, and of rashly introducing 
new opinions about the Deity, I have put myself into your 
school : so that, Melitus, I will say, if you acknowledge 
Eutyphron to be a person of ability in such matters, and 
that he has good notions, I declare to you, I have embraced 

* In Greece, there were interpreters of divine things, who were 
public persons, to whom the people addressed themselves in all 
weighty cases. Those, who were any thing devout, would not un- 
dertake the least thing, without having first consulted them. 

M 



122 



EUTYPHRON ; OR, 



the same sentiments. Therefore forbear to prosecute me 
any farther. And if, on the contrary, you think Euty- 
phron is not orthodox, cause the master to be called in 
question before you meddle with the scholar : he is the 
cause of all this mischief ; it is he that ruins both his 
father and me. He ruins me in teaching me a false reli- 
gion ; and he ruins his father in prosecuting him by the 
principles of this same religion, and if he continues to 
prosecute me without any regard to my request, or leaves 
me to pursue you, you will not fail to make your appear- 
ance, and to speak the same thing which I shall have 
signified to him. 

Eut. Upon my word, Socrates, if he is so impudent as 
to attack me, I shall soon find his weak side, and shall at 
least run but half the danger. 

Soc. I know it very well, and that is the reason I am so 
desirous of being your disciple, being well assured, that 
no person is so bold as to dare look you in the face ; no, 
not Melitus himself, who looks so intently, and who can 
see so well to the bottom of my soul, that he accuses me 
of impiety. 

In the mean time, then, tell me, I beseech you, what you 
just now affirmed, and which you know so well, viz. what 
is holy and just, impious and unjust — in respect of killing 
men, for instance — and so in all other subjects that may 
offer themselves to us. Is not sanctity always like itself 
in all sorts of actions ; and is not impiety, which is its 
contrary, always the same too ? So that the same idea, 
the same character of impiety, is always found in everv 
thing which is impious. 

Exit, It is certainly so, Socrates. 

Soc. What is it then that you call pious and holy, pro- 
fane and impious ? 

Eut. I call that pious and holy, for example, which I 
am doing to-day, namely, to prosecute every man who 
commits murder, sacrilege, and such other crimes, whether 
it be father, mother, brother, or any other person. And 
I call it an impious thing to suffer the criminal quietly to 
enjoy his crime. I pray, Socrates, mind well what I say ; 
I will give you very certain proofs that my definition is 
conformable to the law.* I have already mentioned it to 
* It is so indeed ; but it is ill applied here, and is not true on all 



OF HOLINESS. 



123 



many persons, and have made them confess, chat there is 
nothing more just, than not to spare a wicked man, let 
him be who he will. All men are convinced that Jupiter 
is the best and most just of all Gods ; and all agree, that 
he put his father in chains, because he, contrary to all 
manner of justice, devoured his children. Saturn had 
before treated his father with yet greater severity for some 
other fault. And yet people cry out against me, when I 
prosecute my father for an atrocious act of injustice ; and 
they fall into a manifest contradiction, in judging so dif- 
ferently of the actions of those Gods, and mine, in which 
I had no other design than that of imitating them.* 

Soc. Is this the thing, Euty^phron, which has brought 
me to-day to this bar; because when I am told these 
tales of the Gods, I cannot hear them without pain? Is 
this the crime with which I am going to be charged ? If 
you, who are so able in matters of religion, agree with the 
people in this, and believe these stories, it is absolutely 
necessary that I should believe them too, who confess in- 
genuously that I know nothing of these matters. Shall I 
pretend to be wiser than my teachers, and make head 
against them? Therefore, I beg of you, in the name of 
that God who presides over friendship, do not deceive me : 
Do you believe all these things you say ? 

Eut. I not only believe these, but others too that are 
more surprising, of which the people are wholly ignorant.*)* 

Soe. You seriously believe then that there are great 
quarrels, animosities, and wars among the Gods? You 
believe all those other passions that reign among them, 
which are so surprising, and are represented by poets and 
painters in their poems and pictures, which are exposed to 
view in all parts of our temples ; and are wrought with 
various colours in that mysterious tapestry which is carried 
in procession to the citadel every fifth year, J during the 

occasions, as it is not on this. That which Eutyphron here calls the 
law, is the law of nature, which teaches us to imitate God in all we 
know of him. 

* The imitation of those false Gods could oniy produce very ill 
actions, as the poets themselves have acknowledged. 

i Doubtless he means those mysteries which were known only to 
those that were initiated. 

$ This tapestry was the sail of Minerva's ship, on which the prin- 
cipal actions of this Goddess were described in needle-work; which 



124 



EUTYPHRON; OR, 



Panathenea ; * must we receive all these things as so many 
great truths, Eutyphron? 

Eut. Not only these, Socrates, but a great many others 
besides, as I told you just now, which I will explain to 
you, if you please ; and upon my word they will make you 
wonder. 

Soc. No, they will not make me wonder much, but you 
may explain them to me another time when you are more 
at leisure. I pray now endeavour to explain to me what I 
asked you, a little more clearly, for you have not yet fully 
answered my question ; you have not taught me what ho- 
liness is. You have only told me, that that is a holy thing 
which you do in accusing your father of murder. 

Eut. And I have told you the truth. 

Soc. It may be so : but are there not a great many 
other things which you call holy ? 

Eut. Without doubt there are. 

Soc. I intreat you therefore to remember, that what I 
asked you was not to teach me one or two holy things 
among a great many others that are so too ; but to give 
me a clear and distinct idea of the nature of holiness, and 
of that which causes all holy things to be holy. For you 
told me yourself, that there is only one and the same cha- 
racter which makes all holy tilings to be what they are; 
as there is one that makes wickedness to be always wicked- 
ness. Do not you remember it? 

Eut. Oh yes, I remember it. 

Soc. Then teach me to know what this character is, that 
I may have it always before my eyes, and may use it as the 
true model, and real original, that so I may be in a condi- 
tion to affirm of every thing which I see you or others do, 
that that which resembles this model is holy, and that 
which does not resemble it is wicked. 

Eut. If that is your desire, Socrates, I am ready to 
satisfy you. 

Soc. Truly, that is what I would have. 

after it had been exposed in the ship at the beginning of the feast, 
was carried in procession. The ship was rolled along on firm ground 
to the temple of Ceres at Eleusine,from whence it was brought back, 
and carried to the citadel: and the statue of the goddess was at last 
adorned with it. 

* The feast of Minerva 



OF HOLINESS. 



125 



Eut. I say then, that holiness is that which is agree- 
able to the Gods, and wickedness is that which, is disagree- 
able to them. 

Soc. Very well, Entyphron, you have at last answered 
rne precisely according to my question. But I do not 
yet know whether you speak true. However, surely you 
will know how to convince me of the truth of what you 
advance. 

Eut. I will answer you. 

Soc. Come then, let us lay clown what we say plainly. 
A holy thing, or a holy man, is a thing or a man that is 
agreeable to God ; a wicked thing, or a wicked man, is a 
man or thing that is disagreeable to him. Thus what is 
holy and what is wicked are directly opposite, are they 
not ? 

Eut. That is beyond dispute. 

Soc. I think this is very well laid clown. 

Eut. I think so too, Socrates. 

Soc. But have we not also affirmed, that the Gods have 
frequent animosities and contentions among themselves, 
and are often embroiled and divided one against another ?* 

Eut. Yes, without doubt. 

Soc. Therefore let us now examine what may be the 
occasion of that difference of sentiment which produces 
those quarrels and that enmity among them. If you and 
I should dispute about numbers, to know which was the 
greater, would this difference make us enemies, and carry 
us to all manner of excesses and violences ? Should we 
not immediately set ourselves to reckon, that we might 
presently be of the same mind ? 

Eut. It is very true, we should so. 

Soc. And if we should dispute about the different bigness 
of bodies, should we not presently go about measuring 
them ? and would not that soon put an end to our dispute ? 

Eut. It would so. 

Soc. And if we should contest about weight, would not 
our difference be soon determined by means of a pair of 
scales ? 

Eut. No doubt of it. 

Soc. Well, then, what is there, about which if we should 

* Socrates refutes this definition of holiness, by shewing that it can- 
not subsist with their theology, 

M 2 



126 



EUTYPHRON ; OR, 



come to dispute, without having a certain rule to which 
we might recur, we should become irreconcileable enemies, 
and fall into extravagant passion one against the other? 
Perhaps none of these things at present occur to your 
mind. I will tell you some of them, and you shall judge 
whether I am in the right. Is it not what is just and un- 
just, comely and indecent, good and evil ? Are not these 
the things about which we every day differ, and not finding 
a sufficient rule to make us accord, we fall into the greatest 
enmity ? When I say we, I speak of all mankind in general. 

Eut. That indeed is the tvue cause of all our law-suits, 
and all our wars. 

Soc. And if it be true, that the Gods are at variance 
among themselves about any thing, must it not necessarily 
be some one of these? 

Eut. It must be so. 

Soc. According to you then, excellent Eutyphron, the 
Gods are divided about what is just and unjust, comely and 
indecent, good and evil.* For if they did not contest about 
these things, they would have no occasion of wrangling, 
but would be always united, would they not ? 

Eut. You say very right. 

Soc. And the things which each God takes to be comely, 
good and just, are loved by him, and the contrary hated. 
Eut. Most certainly. 

Soc. According to you then, one and the same thing 
seems just to some of them, and unjust to others, seeing 
wars and seditions are stirred up among them by such dis- 
putes as these : is it not so ? 

Eut. It is so without doubt. 

Soc. Hence it follows, that one and the same thing is 
the object both of the love and hatred of the Gods, and is 
at the same time pleasing and displeasing to them. 

Eut. So it seems. 

Soc. And consequently, according to you, what is holy 
and profane, are the same thing. 

Eut. I grant, this consequence may be just. 

Soc. Then you have not answered my question, incom- 
parable Eutyphron ; for I did not ask you what it was that 
at the same time was holy and profane, pleasing and dis- 

* Socrates handsomely ridicules those Gods, who know not what 
justice and injustice, vice and virtue, are. 



OF HOLINESS. 



127 



pleasing to the Gods. So that I foresee it is possible, 
without a miracle, that the action you are about to-day, in 
prosecuting your father to bring him to punishment, may 
please Jupiter, and at the same time may displease Ccelum 
and Saturn ; may be approved by Vulcan, and disapproved 
by Juno • and so of the rest of the Gods, who may be of 
different sentiments. 

Eut. But, Socrates, I suppose there is no dispute about 
this among the Gods ; nor does any one of them pretend, 
that he who has killed a man unjustly, should be suffered 
to go unpunished. 

Soc. Neither is there any man that pretends to that : 
Did you ever see any one that dared put the matter in 
question, whether he that had wilfully murdered a man, or 
committed any other act of injustice, ought to be punished 
or not ? 

Eut. We every where hear and see scarce any thing else 
before the tribunals, but persons who have committed acts 
of injustice, saying and doing what they can to avoid pu- 
nishment. 

Soc. But do the persons of whom you speak, Eutyphron, 
confess that they have done those acts of injustice of which 
they are accused ; and after this confession, maintain that 
they ought not to be punished ? 

Eut. They have no mind to confess so, Socrates. 

Soc. Then they do not say and do all they can ; for 
they dare neither maintain nor assert, that when their in- 
justice is manifest, and sufficiently attested, they ought not 
to be chastised for it, Is it not so ? 

Eut. It is very true. 

Soc. They do not put the matter in question, whether 
he that is guilty of injustice ought to be punished ; no- 
body doubts that. But that about which they dispute, 
is the nature of injustice, to determine in what, how, and 
on what occasion it is committed. 

Eut. That is certain. 

Soc. And is it not the same in heaven, if it be true, as 
you have asserted, that the Gods are at variance about 
what is just and unjust ? Do not some of them affirm that 
others of them are unjust ? and do not the latter maintain 
the contrary? For there is not one among them, no more 
than among us, who dares advance such a notion as this 
That he that commits injustice ought not to be punished 



128 



EUTYPHRON ; OR, 



Eut. All you say is true, Socrates ; at least, in general. 

Soc. You may say in particular too : for it is about 
particular actions that both men and Gods dispute every 
day, if it be true that the Gods dispute about any thing. 
Do not some say such an action is just, and others that it 
is unjust? 

Eut. Yes, doubtless. 

Soc. Come, then, my dear Eutyphron, for my particular 
instruction, tell me what certain proof you have that the 
Gods all disapprove the death of your farmer, who, after he 
had so barbarously knocked his fellow-servant on the 
head, was laid in irons, and so perished before your father 
had received the answer which he expected from Athens. 
Demonstrate to me, that on tbis occasion it is a pious and 
just action for a son to accuse his father of murder, and to 
bring him to punishment for it ; and see if you can fairly 
and evidently prove to me, that the action of such a son is 
pleasing to the Gods. If you do this, I shall never cease 
to admire and celebrate your capacity as long as I live. 

Eut. It is somewhat difficult indeed, to prove it to 
you. For my part, I could prove it as evidently as 

Soc. I understand you. That is to say, you think I 
have a duller head than any of your judges ; for as to them, 
there is no difficulty in the case : you will make it appear 
to them that your farmer was unjustly killed, and that all 
the Gods disapprove your father's action. 

Eut. I will make it appear to them as clear as the light, 
provided they will but hear me. 

Soc. Oh ! they will not fail to hear you, provided you 
make a fine speech to them.* But I will tell you what reflec- 
tion I just now made, while I was hearkening to what you 
said. I said within myself, suppose it were possible for 
Eutyphron to persuade me that all the Gods are of the 
mind, that this farmer was unjustly killed ; should I be 
ever the wiser ? should I understand, better than I do, 
what is holy, and what is profane ? The death of this 
farmer is displeasing to the Gods, as he pretends. — I will 
grant it : but this is not a definition of what is holy, and 

* Socrates reproaches the Athenians, that they loved to hear such 
as could talk finely, and did not much trouble their heads about the 
truth of things. We learn from the Sacred History, that this was 
the character of the Atheuians \ they spent their time in hearing 
either novelists or orators. 



OF HOLINESS* 



129 



its contrary, seeing the Gods are divided ; and that which 
is disagreeable to some of them, is agreeable to others. 
Very well, I pass that, Eutyphron : I am willing to sup- 
pose that all the Gods account your father's action unjust, 
and that they all abhor it. I pray then let us correct our 
definition a little, and say, " That which all the Gods con- 
demn is profane, and that which all the Gods approve is 
holy ; and that which is approved by some of them, and 
disapproved by others, is neither one nor the other, or 
rather is both together." Shall we stand by this definitiou 
of what is holy and what profane ? 

Eut. What should hinder us, Socrates ? 

Soc. For my part I will not hinder it : but do you see 
yourself if this suits your opinion, and if upon this prin- 
ciple you can instruct me better in what you have been en- 
deavouring to teach me. 

Eut. And for my part, I shall make no difficulty of 
asserting, that that is holy which all the Gods approve, 
and that profane which they all disapprove. 

Soc. Examine this definition, to see if it be true : or 
shall we receive it without any ceremony ? and shall we 
have that respect for ourselves and others, as to give our 
assent to all our imaginations and fancies ; so that for a 
man to tell us a thing is so, shall be sufficient to gain our 
belief ; or is it necessary to examine what is said to us ? 

Eut. Without doubt we should examine it ; and I am 
well assured, that what we have laid down is a good 
position. 

Soc. That we shall see presently. Hear me a little. Is 
that which is holy beloved of the Gods, because it is holy, 
or is it holy because it is beloved of them ?* 

* This thought is too high for Eutyphron, who, conceiving holi- 
ness as a thing distinct from God, could not tell how to comprehend 
that what is holy is at the same time loved of God, because it is 
holy ; and holy because loved of God ; for holiness comes from God, 
Sanctitas primitiva ; and the holiness of men is the effect of the 
divine communion, which Socrates understood, and of which he 
elsewhere speaks. So that Socrates here speaks with reference to 
the gross manner of conceiving the things of religion which was to 
be found in ignorant men, who judged of this as of all other things 
in which the relatives are very different, as that which is loved is 
different from that which loves ; that which is moved is different 
from that which moves it, &c. 



130 



EUTYPHRON; OR, 



Eut. I do not well understand what you say, Socrates. 

Soc. I will endeavour to explain myself. Do not we 
say, that a thing is carried, and that a thing carries ? that 
a thing is seen, and that a thing sees ? that a thing is 
moved,, and that a thing moves it? and the like to infinity. 
Do you conceive that they are different ? and do you un- 
derstand in what they differ ? 

Eut. I think I do. 

Soc. Is not the thing heloved different from that which 

loves ? 

Eut. A pretty question, indeed ! 

Soc. Tell me then, is the thing which is carried, car- 
ried because one carries it, or for some other reason ? 

Eut. Because one carries it, without doubt. 

Soc. And the thing moved is moved because one moves 
it ; and the thing seen because one sees it ? 

Eut. Most certainly. 

Soc. Then it is not true that one sees a thing because it 
is seen ; but on the contrary, it is seen because one sees 
it. It is not true that one moves a thing because it is 
moved, but it is moved because one moves it. Nor is it 
true that one carries a thing because it is carried, but it 
is carried because one carries it. Do you understand me 
now ? Is this plain enough ? My meaning is, that one 
does not do a thing because it is done, but that it is 
done because one does it : that a being which suffers, 
does not suffer because it is passive, but is passive because 
it suffers. Is not this true ? 

Eut. Who doubts it ? 

Soc. Is not that which is loved something that is done, 
or that suffers ? 
Eut. Certainly. 

Soc. Then it is with that which is loved as it is with all 
other things ; it is not because it is loved that one loves 
it, but on the contrary it is because one loves it that it is 
loved. 

Eut. That is as clear as the light. 

Soc. What shall we say then of that which is holy, my 
dear Eutyphron ? Shall we not say it is beloved of the 
Gods, as you have asserted ? 

Eut. Yes, certainly. 



OF HOLINESS. 



131 



Soc. But is it beloved because it is holy, or is it for 
some other reason? 

Fut. It is for no other reason. 

Soc. Then it is beloved because it is holy ; but it is not 
holy because it is beloved. 
Fut. So I think. 

Soc. But is it not beloved of the Gods because the Gods 
love it ? 

Fut. Who can deny it 1 

Soc. Then that which is beloved of God is not the same 
with that which is holy, nor that which is holy the same 
with that which is beloved, as you say : but they are very 
different. 

Fut. How then, Socrates ? 

Soc. Because we are agreed that that which is holy is 
beloved because it is holy, and that it is not true that it 
is holy because it is beloved. Are we not agreed in that ? 

Eut. I confess it. 

Soc. We are farther agreed, that that which is beloved 
of the Gods, is beloved of them only because they love it ; 
and that it is not true, to say they love it because it is be- 
loved. 

Eut. That is right. 

Soc. But, my dear Eutyphron, if that which is beloved 
of the Gods, and that which is holy,* were the same thing, 
seeing that which is holy is beloved only because it is holy ; 
it would follow, that the Gods should love that which they 
love, only because it is beloved of them. And on the 
other hand, if that which is beloved of the Gods, were 
loved only because they love it ; then it would be true 
likewise to say, that which is holy is holy, only because it 
is beloved of them. By this therefore you see that those 
two terms, beloved of the Gods, and holy, are very dif- 
ferent. One is beloved because the Gods love him, and 
another is loved only because he deserves to be loved. 
Thus, my dear Eutyphron, when you should have given 
me an exact answer what it is to be holy, to be sure you 

* For if these two terms beloved and holy were the same thing, 
one might be put for the other : whence ail that absurdity weald 
follow which Socrates represents here. 



132 



EUTYPHRON J OR, 



were not willing to explain to me wherein the essence of it 
consists, by an accurate definition ; but were content to 
shew one of its qualities, which is that of being beloved of 
the Gods ; but you have not given me an account of the 
nature of it. I conjure you, therefore, if you think fit, 
discover this great secret to me ; and beginning with it 
from its very principle, teach me precisely to know what 
holiness is, without having respect to any thing that is 
adventitious : as whether it is beloved of the Gods or not. 
For we shall have no dispute about that. Come then, tell 
me freely, what is it to be holy, and what to be profane ? 

Eut. But, Socrates, I know not how to explain my 
thoughts to you on this subject ; for all that we lay down 
vanishes from us, and does not continue fixed and stable 
in what condition soever we put it. 

Soc. All the principles, Eutyphron, which you have 
established, are somewhat like the figures of Daedalus, 
one of my ancestors.* If I had asserted them, to be sure 
you would not have failed to jeer and reproach me, as if 
I had derived this pretty quality of making things that 
slip out of a man's hands, when he thinks he holds them 
fastest. But it unhappily falls out, that it is you that 
have asserted them. Therefore I must seek for some 
other turns of raillery; for it is certain your principles 
give us the slip, as you see very well. 

Eut, For my part, Socrates, I need not seek any other 
turn of raillery; that suits you perfectly well: for it is 
not I that inspire our reasonings with this instability, 
which hinders them from fixing, but you are the Daedalus. 
If I were alone, I tell you they would continue firm and 
steady. 

Soc. Then I am more expert in my art than Daedalus 

* Daedalus was an excellent carver, who made statues that had 
springs within them, by means of which they would start out and 
go along as if they had been alive. There were two sorts of them, 
as appears by what is said in Menon. What Socrates says here of 
Daedalus, that he was one of his ancestors, is only in raillery. 
Daedalus descended from the kings of Athens ; and Socrates was 
very far from having the vanity of pretending to be of that family. 
PI is meaning is only this, that he knew how to make himself wings, 
as Daedalus did, to fly towards heaven, and to raise his mind to the 
knowledge of divine things. This matter was spoken of in the first 
A lei blades. 



OF HOLINESS. 



133 



was ; he could only give this mobility to his own works, 
whereas it seems I give it not only to my own, but also 
to those of other men : and that which is yet more 
strange, is, that I am thus expert against my will ; for I 
should much rather choose to have my discourses continue 
fixed and immovable, than to have all the riches of Tan- 
talus, together with all the skill of Daedalus, my progeni- 
tor. But enough of this jesting. Seeing you are afraid 
of the trouble, I will endeavour to ease you, and to open 
a shorter way to conduct myself to the knowledge of 
what is holy : and you shall see if it does not appear 
to be absolutely necessary, that whatever is holy is just. 
Eut. It cannot be otherwise. 

Soc. Do you think whatever is just is holy, or what- 
ever is holy is just ? Or do you suppose that that which 
is just is not always holy ; but only that there are some 
just things that are holy, and others which are not so ? 

Eut. I cannot well comprehend what you mean, So- 
crates. 

Soc. And yet you have two great advantages above me, 
having both more youth and more capacity than I. But, 
as I just now told you, swimming in the delicious abun- 
dance of your wisdom, you are afraid of putting yourself 
to much trouble. Shake off, I beseech you, this effeminate 
softness, and apply yourself' a little to thinking. What I 
say, is not very hard to be understood. For I say just the 
contrary to what the poet asserts, who to excuse himself 
for not singing the praises of Jupiter, says, 

Shame every where keeps company with fear. 

I am not at all of his mind : shall I tell you in what ? 

Eut. You will oblige me in so doing. 

Soc. I think it is not true that shame always accompa- 
nies fear; for I think we every day see people in fear of 
sickness and poverty, who yet are not at all ashamed of 
the things they fear. Do not you think so too ? 

Eut. I am of the same mind. 

Soc. On the contrary, fear always follows shame : for 
is there any one who is ashamed, and put into confusion 
by any action, who does not at the same time fear the dis- 
honour that is the consequence of it ? 

Eut. It cannot be otherwise, he must be afraid of it. 

N 



134 EUTYPHRON ; OR, 

Soc. Then it is not true to say 

Shame every where keeps company with fear. 
But we should say 

Fear every where keeps company with shame. 
For it is false, that shame is continually found with fear, 
fear having more extent than shame : indeed shame is one 
part of fear, as the unequal is one part of number. 
Whenever you find a number, you do not necessarily find 
it unequal ; but wherever it is unequal, there you neces- 
sarily find a number. Do you understand me now ? , 

Eat. Very well. 

Soc. This is what I just now asked you ; namely, if where - 
ever that which is just is to be found, there is also that 
which is holy ; and if wherever that which is holy is to be 
found, there is also that which is just ? Now it appears 
that that which is holy is not always found with that 
which is just ; for that which is holy is a part of that 
which is just. Shall we then lay this down as a principle, 
or are you of a different sentiment ? 

Eat. It is a principle that cannot be contested. 

Soc. Now mind what follows : if that which is holy is 
a part of that which is just, we must find out what part 
of that which is just, is that which is holy. As if you 
should ask me what part of number is that which is equal, 
and what number is that part ? I should answer, that 
it is the Isosceles,* and not the Scalene. Do not you 
think so as well as I ? 

Eat. Yes, certainly. 

Soc. Now do you in like manner, see if you can inform 
me what part of that which is just is that which is holy ; 
that I may let Melitus know, that it is best for him to 
forbear to do me any farther injustice in accusing me of 
impiety ; me, who I say, have been perfectly instructed 
by you what piety and holiness, and their contraries are. 

Eat. For my part, Socrates, I think that holiness and 
piety is that part of what is just f which concerns the care 

* The Isosceles signifies that which has two equal sides, for the 
even number divides itself into two equal parts. And the Scalene 
is that which has two unequal sides. 

f This is true: but the Pagans had false ideas of it; because 
they did not understand that this care of God, which consists on 



OF HOLINESS. 



135 



and worship of the Gods, and that all the rest of it is that 
which properly respects men. 

Soc. Very Veil : yet there is some little matter still 
wanting. For I do not well understand what you mean 
by this word [care.] Is this care of the Gods the same 
with that which we take about all other things ? For we 
every day say, that none but an equerry knows how to take 
care of a horse, and to look well after him, do we not ? 

Eut. Yes, doubtless. 

Soc. Then the care of horses properly belongs to the 
equerry. 

Eut. It does so. 

Soc. All men are not fit to take care of dogs, and to 
look after them, but only the huntsman. 
Eut. None but he. 

Soc. Then the care of dogs properly belongs to the art 
of hunting. 

Eut. Without doubt it does. 

Soc. And it belongs to the grazier to take care of oxen. 
Eut. True. 

Soc. Now holiness and piety is the care of the Gods : 
Is not this what you say I 
Eut. Yes, certainly. 

Soc. Has not all care for its end, the good and advan- 
tage of that ^vhich is taken care of ? Do not you every 
day see that the horses which an able equerry takes care of, 
become better, and more fit for service than others ? 

Eut. Yes, without doubt. 

Soc. Does not the care which a good huntsman takes of 
dogs, and that which a good grazier takes of oxen, make 
both the one and the other better I and may not the like 
be said of all other cares ? Or can you think that care 
tends to hurt and spoil that which is taken care of ? 

Eut. No, certainly. 

Soc. Then it tends to make it better. 

Eut. That is right. 

Soc. Then holiness being the care we take of the Gods, 
tends to then 1 advantage ; and so the end of it must be 

our part in obeying him, in conforming to his holy will, and in re- 
signing ourselves to him, was preceded by his care of us, in creating 
us, and in enlightening our minds: and this is what Socratc* 
teaches in other places, 



136 



EUTYPHRON ; OR, 



to make them better. But would you dare to assert, 
when you do any holy action, that you make any one of 
the Gods better by it ? * 

Eut. I am far enough from uttering such horrid blas- 
phemy. 

Soc. Nor do 1 think you have any such thought ; I am 
very far from such a supposition : and it is for this reason 
I asked you what this care of the Gods is, being persuaded 
that was not your meaning. 

Eut. You have done me justice, Socrates. 

Soc. So much for that: but tell me then, what sort of 
care of the Gods is holiness ? 

Eut. It is of the nature of that care which servants 
take of their masters. 

Soc. I understand you; that is to say, holiness is a 
kind of servant to the Gods. 

Eut. You have hit it. 

Soc. Can you tell me what physicians effect by 
means of the art of medicine, which is their servant ? 
Do they not restore health ? 

Eut. Yes. 

Soc. What do the ship-carpenters, who are in ports, 
do ? And what do our architects perform by the ministry 
of their servants ? Do not the former build ships, and 
the latter houses ? 

Eut. Yes, certainly. 

Sac. What then do the Gods perform by the ministry 
cf their servants ? For you must certainly know this, 
since you pretend to know religion better than any man 
in the world beside.f 

Eut. And I have reason to make that pretence. 

Soc. Tell me then, I beseech you, what wonderful 
work is it that the Gods perform by making use of our 
service ? 

Eut. They perform many very great and wonderful 
things. 

* Men are incapable of doing any thing to the advantage of God. 

t Socrates would hereby insinuate, what he elsewhere teaches, 
that God by the ministry of holiness works the conversion of souls : 
that this his conversion produces love, and that this love engages us 
to render him that which appertains to him, and which we cannot 
innocently refuse him. 



OF HOLINESS. 



137 



Soc. The generals of our army perform many great 
things too ; but yet there is always one thing which is the 
principal, and that is the victory thev obtain in battle, is it 
not? 

Eut. It is so. 

Soc. And the graziers do many good things, but the 
principal is that of supplying mankind with food by their 
industry. 

Eut. I grant it. 

Soc. Well, then, of all those good things which the Gods 
operate by the ministry of holiness, what is the principal ? 

Eut. I just now told you, Socrates, that there needs 
more time and pains to arrive at an accurate knowledge of 
these things. All that I can tell you in general, is, that to 
please the Gods by prayers and sacrifices, is that which we 
call holiness ; and in this consists the welfare of families 
and cities : whereas to displease the Gods is impiety, which 
utterly ruins and subverts every thing. 

Soc. Indeed, Eutyphron, you might have told me what 
I asked in fewer words, if you had pleased. It is easy 
to see you have a mind to instruct me ; for when you seem 
to be just in the way to do it, you presently strike off 
again : if you had but answered me a word more, I had 
very well understood the nature of holiness. But now, 
(for he that asks must follow him who is asked) do not 
you say, holiness is the art of sacrificing and praying ? 

Eut. Yes, that I do. 

Soc. To sacrifice, is to give to the Gods : to pray, is to 
ask of them. 

Eut. It is right, Socrates. 

Soc. It follows, then, from your discourses, that holiness 
is the science of giving to the Gods, and asking of them. * 

Eut. Socrates, you perfectly comprehend my meaning. 

Soc. It is because I am in love with your wisdom, and 
give myself up entirely to it. You need not fear that I 
bhall let one of your words fall to the ground. Tell me 

* This fourth definition is admirable. Socrates designs by it to 
shew that holiness leads us to ask of God, his spirit, his assistance 
and grace ; and to ask even ourselves of him; for it is on him our 
very being depends ; and that it also engages us to give ourselves to 
him. And this makes up the whole of religion. 

N 2 



138 



EUTYPHRON; OR, 



then, what is this art of pleasing the Gods ? Do you say 
it is to give to them, and to ask of them, 
Eut. Most certainly. 

Soc. To ask well, must we not ask such things as we 
have need to receive of them? 
Eut. And what then ? 

Soc. And to give well, must we not give them in ex- 
change such things as they have need to receive of us ? 
For it would be a folly to give any one such things as he 
does not want, but are entirely useless to him. 

Eut. You say very well. 

Soc. Holiness, my dear Eutyphron, is then a kind of 
traffic betwixt the Gods and men. 

Eut. Let it be so, if you will have it so. 

Soc. I would not have it so, if it be not so : but tell me, 
what advantage do the Gods receive from the presents 
which we make them? For the advantage we derive from 
them is very evident, since we have not the least good but 
what proceeds from their liberality. Of what advantage 
then are our offerings to the Gods ? Are we so crafty, as 
to draw all the profit of this commerce to ourselves, while 
they derive no advantage from it ? 

Eut. Socrates, do you think the Gods can ever draw any 
advantage from the things they receive from us ? 

Soc. To what purpose then do all our offerings serve ? 

Eut. They serve to signify our veneration and respect 
to them, and the desire we have to please them. 

Soc. Then holiness does not profit, but please the Gods ? 

Eut. Yes, without doubt. 

Soc. Then that which is holy, is only that which pleases 
the Gods. 

Eut. It is only that. 

Soc. When you speak thus to me, do you wonder that 
your discourse is not fixed and steady ? and dare you accuse 
me of being the Daedalus, that gives it this continual mo- 
tion ? You, I say, who are a thousand times more inge- 
nious than that great artist, and give your words a thousand 
different turns ? Do not you find that your discourse 
makes only a circle ? You remember very well, that that 
which is holy, and that which is agreeable to the Gods, 
were not counted the same thing by us just now, but 



OF HOLINESS. 



139 



were acknowledged to be very different ? Do not you re- 
member this ? 
Eut. I do. 

Soc. Well, and do not you consider that you now say, 
that which is holy is that which pleases the Gods ? Is not 
what pleases them agreeable to them? 

Eut. Most certainly. 

Soc. Then one of these two things must be granted : 
either that we did not well distinguish just now ; or, if we 
did, that we are now fallen into a false definition. 

Eut. That is plain. 

Soc. Then we must begin all again in our inquiry after 
holiness ; for I shall not be weary nor discouraged till you 
have informed me what it is. I beg you would not despise 
me, but bend your mind with all the application you can, 
to teach me the truth ; for you know it, if any man alive 
does : and I will not let you go, like another Proteus, till 
you have instructed me. For if you had not a perfect 
knowledge of what is holy and profane, doubtless you 
would never, for the sake of a wretched farmer, have under- 
taken to accuse your father of murder, when the good old 
man stoops under the burden of age, and has already one 
foot in the grave ; but would have been seized with horror 
to see yourself about to commit, it may be, an impious 
act, and would have feared the Gods, and respected men. 
So that I cannot doubt but you think you know perfectly 
well what holiness and its contrary are. Inform me, there- 
fore, most excellent Eutyphron, and do not hide your 
thoughts from me. 

Eut. We will reserve it for another time,* for now I am 
a little in haste, and it is time for me to leave you.f 

Soc. Alas, my dear Eutyphron, what do you intend to 
do ! This hasty motion of yours ravishes from me the 

* Observe the pride of this superstitious man; he is just con- 
founded, and yet he always thinks himself capable of teaching what 
he does not know himself. 

t The ancients inform us, that Eutyphron got some advantage by 
this conversation of Socrate3 ; for he dropped his prosecution, and 
let his father alone. By which it is easy to see, that these Dialogues 
of Plato were not made upon feigned subjects, but had a very true 
and real foundation, as well as those which Xenophon has preserved 
to us. 



140 eutyphron; or, of holiness. 

greatest and sweetest of all my hopes : for I flattered my- 
self, that after I had learned of you what holiness is and 
its contrary, I should easily have got out of Melitus's 
clutches, by making it plainly appear to him, that Euty- 
phron had perfectly instructed me in divine things, that 
ignorance should never more prompt me to introduce of 
my own head new opinions about the Deity ; and that my 
life should be more holy for the future. 



THE 



INTRODUCTION TO CRITO. 



Socrates, in his Apology, has furnished us with an 
admirable model of an honest man's defences, when un- 
justly arraigned. And in this Dialogue, which is entitled, 
" Of what is to be done/' he gives us a yet more perfect 
plan of the conduct of a good man, and the obedience he 
owes to justice and the laws, even in dying when they re- 
quire it, though at the same time it were easy for him to 
escape. While Socrates lay in prison, his friends being 
more concerned for his life than himself, had retained the 
gaoler. Every thing was in readiness for accomplishing 
his escape ; and Crito goes into the prison before day, to 
tell him the good news, and persuade him not to slight 
the precious opportunity. Socrates hears him, and com- 
mends his zeal : but before he would comply, starts the 
question, whether it was just for him to depart the prison, 
without the consent of the Athenians. So that the point 
to be decided in this Dialogue, is, whether a man unjustly 
condemned to die, can innocently withdraw himself from 
the hand of justice and the law ? Socrates was the only 
man of the age he lived in, that called that in question ; 
and, which is yet more surprising, were he now alive, he 
would be the only man in this our age. All that we see 
before our eyes, or read of in our histories ; in a word, all 
the instances of what men have done through the love of 
life, and the fear of death, have so debauched our judg- 
ments, that we are scarce able to judge of what true 
justice requires, and are apt to call every thing just, that 
is universally practised. Now there cannot be a more ca- 
pital error. However, since the conduct of a heathen, that 
chose rather to die > than to break the course of justice, 
would seem to us the effect of folly, or strong prejudice ; 
let us try if we can hit upon any solid rule, that may re- 
claim us by its authority, and convince us by its light. 



142 



THE INTRODUCTION TO CRITO. 



The Christian religion affords a great many such : but we 
shall confine ourselves to one, which in a sovereign degree 
is justly entitled to both these characters. St. Paul, being 
in prison in Macedonia, one night the prison doors opened, 
and his chains dropped off, and he was so far from making 
his escape, that he hindered others to do it. Peter being 
imprisoned by Herod, who had resolved to put him to 
death after the passover, made his escape the night before 
the day of execution. But how did he do it ? God did 
not content himself with unlocking his chains, and open- 
ing the prison-doors, but sent an angel, who pushed him 
on, and forced him to go along. This was the conduct of 
the saints. Though the prison be open, they do not offer 
to make their escape. Nothing less than an angel can 
oblige them to depart the prison. Socrates, who was no 
saint, but followed as close as possible the same light that 
guides and illuminates the saints, observes the same 
conduct. They opened the prison and untied his 
chains, but his angel was silent, and he would not stir. 
He preferred an innocent death before a criminal life : but 
before he came to a resolution, he heard the reasons of his 
friend, who speaks with a great deal of force, and omits 
nothing that could move him ; and after that, with a di- 
vine eloquence, confronted him with incontestable maxims, 
grounded upon truth and justice, in which one may trace 
the rays of the evangelical doctrine, namely, that we ought 
to slight the opinions of men, and regard only the judgment 
of God ; that it is not living, but living well, that should 
be our wish ; that justice is the life, and injustice the 
death of the soul ; that we ought not to injure our 
enemies, or resent the injuries we receive ; that it is bet- 
ter to die, than to sin ; that we must obey the law of our 
country ; that the injustice of men cannot justify our dis- 
respect to the laws ; and that the laws of this world have 
sister-laws in the other, which revenge the affronts put 
upon them here. 

These were the principles that Socrates went upon. 
Those that take the pains to examine them, and weigh 
their consequences, will be fully satisfied, not only that 
Socrates acted the part of an honest man in refusing to 
make his escape, but likewise, that he could not be a good 
man if he did otherwise. And it was with this view that 



CRITO. 



143 



Quintilian said. This philosopher, by quitting the small re- 
mainder of his life, retrieved all the former part of his life, 
and likewise gained a life to all ages. It is such thoughts 
as these that our souls should always have in view, in order 
to keep out vice ; for if once we relent, and allow the 
enemy to gain some ground, under a specious pretence, 
and a taking appearance, it will quickly master all, and 
overturn all the hanks that should stop its course. 



CRITO: 

OR, OF WHAT WE OUGHT TO DO I 



SOCRATES AND CRITO. 

Soc. What is the matter that you come here so soon, 
Crito ? As I take it, it is very early. 
Crit. It is true. 

Soc. What time may it be then ? 

Crit. A little before the break of day. 

Soc. I wonder the gaoler let you in. 

Crit. He is one I know very well. I have been with him 
here often ; and he is in some measure obliged to me. 

Soc. Are you but just come ? Or is it long since you 
came ? 

Crit. I have been here some time. 

Soc. Why did you not awaken me then, when you 
came in ? 

Crit. Pray God forbid, Socrates. For my own part, I 
would gladly shake off the cares and anxiety that keep my 
eyes from closing. But when I entered this room, I wondered 
to find^ you so sound asleep, and was loth to awaken you, 
that 1 might not rob you of these happy minutes. Indeed, 
Socrates, ever since I knew you, I have been always charmed 
with your patience and calm temper ; but in a distin- 
guishing manner at this juncture, since in the circum- 
stances you are in, your eye looks so easy and unconcerned. 

Soc. Indeed, Crito, it would be a great indecency in one 
of my age to be apprehensive of death. 



144 



CRITO; OR, 



Crit. Ay ! and how many do we see every day, under 
the like misfortunes, whom age does not exempt from 
those fears ! 

Soc. That is true. But after all, what brought you 
hither so early ? 

Crit. I came to tell you a troublesome piece of news, 
which though it may not seem to affect you, yet it over- 
whelms both me and your relations and friends with in- 
sufferable grief. In fine, I bring the most terrible news 
that ever could be brought. 

Soc. What news ? Is the ship arrived from Delos, upon 
the return of which I am to die '! 

Crit. It is not yet arrived ; but without doubt it will be 
here this day, according to the intelligence we have from 
persons that came from Sunium, and left it there. For at 
that rate, it cannot fail of being there to-day, and so to- 
morrow you must unavoidably die. 

Soc. Why not, Crito ? Be it so, since it is the will of 
God. However, I do not believe the vessel will arrive this 
day. 

Crit. What do you ground that conjecture upon ? 

Soc. I will tell you : I am not to die till the day after 
the arrival of the vessel. 

Crit. At least those who are to execute the sentence 
say so. 

Soc. The vessel will not arrive till to-morrow, as I con- 
jecture from a certain dream I had this night, about a 
minute ago.* And it seems to me a happiness, that you 
did not awaken me. 

Crit. Well, what is the dream ? 

Soc. I thought, I saw a very handsome comely woman, 
clad in white, come up to me, who, calling me by name, 
said, In three days thou shalt be in the fertile Phthia.f 

* He speaks on this fashion, because the dreams of the morning 
were looked upon as more distinct and true. " Certiora et colatiora 
somniari affirmant sub extimis noctibus, quasi jam emergente ani- 
marum vigore, producto sopore." Tertul. de Anima. 

t In the 9th Book of the Iliad, Achilles, threatening to retire, 
says to Ulysses, " After to-morrow you shall see the Hellespont co- 
vered with my ships, and if Neptune afford me a happy voyage, in 
three days I shall arrive at the fertile Phthia.'' It was this last 
verse that Socrates had from the mouth of the woman in his dream ; 
for our dreams always bear a proportion to our genius, habits, and 



OF WHAT WE OUGHT TO DO. 



145 



Cait. That is a very strange dream, Socrates. 

Soc. It is a very significant one, Crito. 

Crit. Yes, without douht. But for this time, pray 
Socrates, take my advice, and make your escape. For 
if you die, besides the irreparable loss of a friend, which 
I shall ever lament, I am afraid that a great many people, 
who are not well acquainted either with you or me, will 
believe that I have forsaken you, and not employed my 
interest for promoting your escape. Is there any thing 
more scandalous, than to He under the disrepute of being 
wedded to my money more than my friend ? For, in short, 
the people will never believe that you refused to go from 
hence,, when we had enabled you to do so. 

Soc. My dear Crito, why should we be so much con- 
cerned for the opinion of the people ? Is it not enough, 
that the more sensible part, who are the only men we 
ought to regard, know how the case stands ? 

Crit. But you see, Socrates, there is a necessity of being- 
concerned for the noise of the mob ; for your example is 
a sufficient instance, that they are capable of doing, not 
only small, but the greatest of injuries, and display their 
passion in an outrageous manner, against those who are 
once run down by vulgar opinion. 

Soc. Were the people capable of doing the greatest in- 
juries, they would likewise be capable of doing the greatest 
good : that would be a great happiness. But neither the 
one nor the other is possible. For they cannot make 
either wise men or fools.* 

Crit. I grant it. But pray answer me : is it not out of 
tenderness to me and your other friends, that you will not 
stir from hence ? For fear, lest upon your escape we should 

ways of thinking. Nothing can be a stronger evidence of the gentle 
and easy thoughts that Socrates had of death, than his application 
of this passage, by which he represents death as a fortunate voyage 
to one's own country. The grammarians, who are always tied up 
to the letter, were never able to point out the beauty and delicacy 
of this passage : for they only turned it into a coarse idea of death, 
upon the resemblance of the word Phthia with (pO'ivziv, to corrupt ; 
as if a Grecian could ever have mistaken (pOhj for (pQiaiq. — Phthia 
was Achilies's country. 

* This is a noble principle of Socrates. None can do the greatest 
harm, but those that are able to do the greatest good. And t 1 ; s 
can only be attributed to God, not to men. 

O 



146 



CRITO; OR, 



be troubled and charged with carrying you off ; and by 
that means be obliged to quit our possessions, or pay a 
large sum of money, or suffer something more fatal than 
either ? If that be your fear, Socrates, in the name of the 
Gods shake it off. Is it not highly reasonable that we 
should purchase your escape at the rate of exposing our- 
selves to these dangers, and greater ones, if there be 
occasion ? Once more, my dear Socrates, believe me and 
come away. 

Soc. I own, Crito, that I have such thoughts, and seve- 
ral others besides in my view. 

Grit, Fear nothing, I entreat you; for in the first place, 
they require no great sum to let you out. And on the 
other hand, you see what a pitiful condition those are in, 
who probably might arraign us : * a small sum of money 
will stop their mouths; my estate alone will serve for that. 
If you scruple to accept my offer, here are a great number 
of strangers, who desire nothing more than to furnish you 
with what money you want. Simmias the Theban him- 
self, has brought up very considerable sums. Cebes is ca- 
pable of doing as much, and so are several others. Let 
not your fears then stifle the desire of making your escape. 
And as for what you told me the other day, in the court, 
that if you made your escape, you should not know how 
to live ; pray let not that trouble you : wherever you go, 
you will be beloved. If you will go to Thessaly, I have 
friends there, who will honour you according to your 
merit, and think themselves happy in supplying you with 
what you want, and covering you from all occasions of 
fear in their country. Besides, Socrates, without doubt 
you are guilty of a very unjust thing in delivering up your- 
self, while it is in your power to make your escape, and 
promoting what your enemies so passionately wish for. 
For you not only betray yourself, but likewise your chil- 
dren, by abandoning them, when you might maintain 
and educate them. You are not at all concerned at what 
may befal them, though at the same time they are like 
to be in as dismal a condition, as ever orphans were. A 
man should either have no children, or else expose himself 

* Those who made a trade of accusing at Athens, were a poor sort 
of people, whose mouths were easily stopped with money. 



OF WHAT WE OUGHT TO DO. 147 

to the care and trouble of bringing them up. You seem 
to me to act a soft and insensible part ; whereas you ought 
to take resolution worthy of a generous soul; above all, 
you, who boast that you have pursued nothing but virtue 
all the days of your life. I tell you, Socrates, I am ashamed 
upon the account of you and your relations, since the world 
will believe it was through our cowardliness, that you did 
not get off. In the first place, they will charge you with 
standing a trial that you might have avoided ; then 
they will censure your conduct in making your defences ; 
and at last, which is the most shameful of all, they will 
upbraid us with forsaking you through fear and cowardice, 
since we did not accomplish your escape. Pray consider 
of it, my dear Socrates; if you do not prevent the ap- 
proaching evil, you will bear a part in the shame that will 
cover us all. Pray advise with yourself quickly. But now I 
think on it, there is no time for advising, there is no choice 
left, all must be put in execution the next night; for if we 
delay longer, all our measures will be broken. Believe me, 
I entreat you, and do as I bid you. 

Soc. My dear Crito, your good will is very commendable, 
provided it agrees with right reason : but if it swerves from 
that, the stronger it is, the more is it blame-worthy. The 
first thing to be considered is, whether we ought to do as 
you say, or not ? For you know it is not of yesterday that 
I have accustomed myself only to follow the reasons that 
appear most just, after a mature examination. Though 
fortune frowns upon me, yet I will never part with the 
principles I have all along professed. These principles 
appear always the same, and I esteem them equally at all 
times. So, if your advice be not backed by the strongest 
reasons, assure yourself I will never comply, not if all the 
people should arm against me, or offer to frighten me 
like a child, by laying on fresh chains, and threatening to 
deprive me of the greatest good, and oblige me to suffer the 
crudest death. Now, how shall we manage this inquiry 
justly ? To be sure, the fairest way is to resume what 
you have been saying of vulgar opinions ; that is, to in- 
quire, whether there are some reports that we ought to re- 
gard, and others that are to be slighted : or whether the 
saying so is only a groundless and childish proposition. I 



148 



CRITO; OR, 



have a strong desire, upon this occasion, to try in your 
presence, whether this principle will appear to me in differ- 
ent colours from what it did while I was in other circum- 
stances, or whether I shall always find it the same; in order 
to determine me to a compliance or refusal. 

If I mistake not, it is certain, that several persons who 
thought themselves men of sense, have often maintained 
in this place,* that of all the opinions of men, some are to 
be regarded, and others to be slighted. In the name of 
the Gods, Crito, do not you think that was well said ? In 
all human appearance, you are in no danger of dying to- 
morrow; and therefore it is presumed that the fear of the 
present danger cannot work any change upon you. Where^ 
fore, pray consider it well: do not you think they spoke 
justly, who said, that ail the opinions of men are not 
always to be regarded, but only some of them; and those 
not of all men, but only of some ? What do you say ? do 
not you think it is very true ? 

Grit. Very true. 

Soc. At that rate then, ought not we to esteem the good 
opinions, and slight the bad ones ? 
Crit. Yes, doubtless. 

Soc. Are not the good opinions then, those of wise men, 
and the bad ones those of fools ? 
Crit. It cannot be otherwise. 

Soc. Let us see then, how you will answer this. A man 
that makes his exercises, when he comes to have his lesson, 
whether shall he regard the commendation or censure of 
whoever comes first, or only of him that is either a phy- 
sician or a master ?f 

Crit. Of the last to be sure. 

Soc. Then he ought to fear the censure, and value the 
commendation of that man alone; and slight what comes 
from others. 

Crit. Without doubt. 

* This probably had been maintained in some of the former con- 
ferences in prison ; for Socrates's friends met every day in the pri- 
son to keep him company. 

t For they perform those exercises either for their health, or else 
to improve their dexterity and strength : for the first they followed 
the orders of a physician : and for the other, they were directed by 
a master. 



OF WHAT WE OUGHT TO DO. 119 

Soc. For that reason, this young man must neither eat 
nor drink, nor do any thing, without the orders of that 
master, that man of sense; and he is not at all to govern 
himself by the caprices of others. 

Crit. That is true. 

Soc. But suppose he disobeys this master, and disre- 
gards his applause or censure; and suffers himself to be 
blinded by the caresses and applauses of the ignorant mob ; 
will he not come to some harm by this means ? 

Crit. How is it possible it should be otherwise ? 

Soc. But what will be the nature of this harm that will 
accrue to him therefrom ? where will it terminate ? and 
what part of him will it affect ? 

Crit. His body, without doubt; for by that means he 
will ruin himself. 

Soc. Very well ; but is not the case the same all over ? 
Upon the point of justice or injustice, honesty or disho- 
nesty, good or evil, which at present are the subject of our 
dispute, shall we rather refer ourselves to the opinion of the 
people, than to that of an experienced wise man, who justly 
challenges more respect and deference from us, than all 
the world besides ? And if we do not act conformably to 
the opinion of this one man, is it not certain that we shall 
ruin ourselves, and entirely lose that which only lives and 
gains new strength by justice, and perishes only through 
injustice ? Or must we take all that for a thing of no 
account ? 

Crit. I am of your opinion. 

Soc. Take heed, I entreat you; if by following the 
opinions of the ignorant we destroy that which is only pre- 
served by health and wasted by sickness, can we survive 
the corruption of that, whether it be our body, or some- 
what else ? 

Crit. That is certain. 

Soc. Can one live then after the corruption and destruc- 
tion of the body? 
Crit. No, to be sure. 

Soc. But can one survive the corruption of that which 
lives only by justice, and dies only through injustice ? Or 
is this thing, whatever it be, that has justice or injustice 
for its object, to be less valued than the body ? 

o 2 



150 



CRTTO ; OR, 



Grit. Not at all. 

Soc. What ! is it much more valuable then ? 
Crit. A great deal more. 

Soc. Then, my dear Crito, we ought not to be concerned 
at what the people say, but what that says, which knows 
what is just and what is unjust ; and that alone is nothing 
else but truth. Thus you see, you establish false prin- 
ciples at first, in saying that we ought to pay a deference 
to the opinions of the people, upon what is just, good, 
honest, and its contraries. Some perhaps will object, that 
the people are able to put us to death. 

Crit. To be sure, they will. 

Soc. It is true. But that does not alter the nature 
of what we were saying ; that is still the same. For you 
must remember, that it is not life, but a good life that we 
ought to court. 

Crit. That is a certain truth. 

Soc. But is it not likewise certain, that this good life 
consists in nothing else but honesty and justice. 
Crit. Yes. 

Soc. Now, before we go farther, let us examine upon the 
principles you have agreed to, whether my departure from 
hence without the permission of the Athenians, is just or 
unjust. If it be found just, we must do our utmost to 
bring it about ; but if it is unjust, we must lay aside the 
design. For as to the considerations you alleged just 
now, of money, reputation, and family ; these are only the 
thoughts of the baser mob, who put innocent persons to 
death, and would afterwards bring them to life, if it were 
possible. But as for us who bend our thoughts another 
way, all that we are to mind, is whether we do a just thing 
in giving money, and lying under an obligation to those 
who promote our escape ; or whether both we and they 
do not commit injustice in so doing? If this be an unjust 
thing, we need not reason much upon the point, since it is 
better to abide here and die, than to undergo what is 
more terrible than death. 

Crit. You are right in this particular, Socrates ; let us 
proceed. 

Soc. We will go hand in hand in the enquiry. If you 
have any thing of weight to answer, pray do it when 1 have 



OF WHAT WE OUGHT TO DO. 



151 



spoken, that so I may comply ; if not, pray forbear any 
farther to press me to go from hence without the consent of 
the Athenians. I shall be infinitely glad if you can persuade 
me to do it ; but I cannot do it without being first con- 
vinced. Take notice then whether my way of pursuing 
this enquiry satisfies you, and do your utmost to make 
answer to my questions. 
Grit. I will. 

Soc. Is it true, that we ought not to do an unjust thing 
to any man ? Or is it lawful in any measure to do it to one, 
when we are forbid to do it to another ? Or is it not abso- 
lutely true, that every kind of injustice is neither good 
nor honest, as we were saying just now ? In fine, are all 
those sentiments which we formerly entertained, vanished 
in a few days ? And is it possible, Crito, that our most 
serious conferences, should resemble those of children, and 
we at the same time not be sensible that it is so ? Ought 
we not rather to stand to what we have said, as being a 
certain truth, that all injustice is scandalous and fatal to 
the person that commits it ? 

Grit. That is certain. 

Soc. Then we must avoid the least measure of injustice ? 
Crit. Most certainly. 

Soc. Since we are to avoid the least degree of it, then 
we ought not to do it to those who are unjust to us, not- 
withstanding that this people thinks it lawful ? 

Crit. So I think. 

Soc. But ought we to do evil or not ? 
Crit. Without doubt we ought not. 
Soc. Is it justice to repay evil with evil, pursuant to the 
opinion of the people, or is it unjust ? 
Crit. It is unjust. 

Soc. Then there is no difference between doing evil, and 
being unjust ? 
Crit. I own it. 

Soc. Then we ought not to do the least evil or injustice 
to any man, let him do by us as he will. But take heed, 
Crito, that by this concession you do not speak against 
your own sentiments. For I know very well there are few 
that will go this length : and it is impossible for those who 
vary in their sentiments upon this point, to agree well to- 
gether. Nay, on the contrary, the contempt of one ano- 



152 



CRITO ; OR, 



ther's opinions, bads them to a reciprocal contempt of one 
another's persons. Consider well then, if you are of the 
same opinion with me ; and let us ground our reasonings 
upon this principle, that we ought not to do evil for evil, or 
treat those unjustly who are unjust to us. For my part, I 
never did, nor ever will entertain any other principle. 
Tell me then if you have changed your mind ; if not, give 
ear to what follows. 
Crit. I give ear. 

Soc. Well : a man that has made a just promise, ought 
he to keep it, or to break it ? 
Crit. He ought to keep it. 

Soc. If I go from hence without the consent of the 
Athenians, shall not I injure some people, and especially 
those who do not deserve it ? Or shall we in this follow 
what we think equally just to every body ? 

Crit. I cannot answer you, for I do not understand 
you. 

Soc. Pray take notice : when we put ourselves in a way 
of making our escape, or going from hence, or how you 
please to call it, suppose the law and the republic should 
present themselves in a body before us, and accost us in 
this manner : (e Socrates, what are you going to do ? — to 
put in execution what you now design, were wholly to 
ruin the laws and the state. Do you think a city can 
subsist when justice has not only lost its force, but is 
likewise perverted, overturned, and trampled under foot by 
private persons?" What answer could we make to such 
and many other questions ? For what is it that an orator 
cannot say upon the overturning of that law, which pro- 
vides that sentences once pronounced shall not be in- 
frh. v o-d? . Shall we answer, that the republic has judged 
amiss, and passed an unjust sentence upon us ? Shall that 
be our answer ? 

Crit. Without scruple, Socrates. 

Soc. What will the laws say then? " Is it not true, So- 
crates, that you agreed with us to submit yourself to a pub- 
lic trial?" And if we should seem to be surprised at 
such language, they will continue perhaps; "Be not sur- 
prised, Socrates, but make answer, for you yourself used 
to insist upon question and answer. Tell then, what oc- 
casion you have to complain of the republic and of us, 



OP WHAT WE OUGHT TO DO. 153 

that you are so eager upon destroying it ? Are not we 
the authors of your birth 1 Is it not by our means that 
your father married her who brought you forth ? * What 
fault can you find with the laws we established as to mar- 
riage V Nothing at all, should I answer. " As to the 
nourishing and bringing up of children, and the manner 
of your education, are not the laws just that we enacted 
upon that head, by which we obliged your father to bring 
you up to music and the exercises ? " Very just, I would 
say. " Since then you were born, brought up, and educated 
under our influence, durst you maintain that you are not 
our nurse-child and subject, as well as your father ? and if 
you are, do you think to have equal power with us, as if it 
were lawful for you to inflict upon us all we enjoin you to 
undergo ? But since you cannot lay claim to any such 
right against your father or your master, so as to repay 
evil for evil, injury for injury, how can you think to ob- 
tain that privilege against your country and the laws, in- 
somuch that if we endeavour to put you to death, you 
will counteract us, by endeavouring to prevent us, and to 
ruin your country and its laws ? Can you call such an 
action just, you that are an inseparable follower of true 
virtue ? Are you ignorant that your country is more con- 
siderable, and more worthy of respect and veneration be- 
fore God and man than your father, mother, and all your 
relations together ? That you ought to honour your 
country, yield to it, and humour it, more than an angry 
father ? That you must either reclaim it by your counsel, 
or obey its injunctions, and suffer without a murmur all 
that it imposes upon you ? If it orders you to be whipped, 
or laid in irons, if it sends you to the wars, there to spend 
your blood, you ought to do it without demurring; you 
must not shake oft* the yoke, or flinch or quit your post ; 
but in the army, in prison, and every where else, ought 
equally to obey the orders of your country. For if offering 
violence to a father or a mother is a piece of grand im- 
piety; to put a force upon one's country is a much 

* This is an admirable way of making* out the obligation of all 
men to obey the laws of their country, by virtue of the treaty made 
between them 



CRITO ; OR, 



greater." What shall we answer to all this, Crito ? Shall 
we acknowledge the truth of what the laws advance ? 
Crit. How can we avoid it ? 

Soc. Do you see then, Socrates, (continue they) what 
reason we have to brand your enterprise against us, as 
unjust ? Of us you hold your birth, your maintenance, 
your education; in fine, we have done you all the good we 
are capable of, as well as to all the other citizens. Indeed, 
we do not fail to make public proclamation, that it is law- 
ful for every private man, if he does not find his account 
in the laws and customs of our republic, after a mature 
examination, to retire with all his effects whither he 
pleases. And if any of you cannot comply with our cus- 
toms, and desires to remove and live elsewhere, not one of 
us shall hinder him, he may go where he pleases. But on 
the other hand, if any one of you continues to five here, 
after he has considered our way of administering justice, 
and the policy observed in the state, then, we say, he is in 
effect obliged to obey all our commands, and we maintain 
that his disobedience is unjust on a three-fold account; 
for not obeying those to whom he owes his birth; for 
trampling under foot those that educated him ; and for 
violating his faith after he had engaged to obey us, and 
not taking the pains to make remonstrances to us, if we 
happen to do an unjust thing. For notwithstanding that 
we only propose things Avithout using any violence to pro- 
cure obedience, and give every man his choice either to 
obey us, or reclaim us by his counsel or remonstrances, 
yet he does neither the one nor the other. And we main- 
tain, Socrates, that if you execute what you are now about, 
you will stand charged with all these crimes, and that in a 
much higher degree than if another private man had com- 
mitted the same injustice. If I asked them the reason, 
without doubt they would stop my mouth by telling me, 
that I submitted myself in a distinguishing manner to all 
these conditions. And we, (continue they) have great 
evidence that you were always pleased with us and the re- 
public ; for if this city had not been more agreeable to 
you than any other, you had never continued in it, no 
more than any other Athenian. None of the shows could 
ever tempt you to go out of the city, except once, that you 



OF "WHAT WE OUGHT TO DO. 



155 



went to see the games at the Isthmus : * you never went 
any where else, excepting your military expeditions, and 
never undertook a voyage, as others are wont to do. You 
never had the curiosity to visit other cities, or enquire after 
other laws, as being contented with us and our republic. 
You always made a distinguishing choice of us, and on all 
occasions testified that you submitted with all your heart 
to live according to our maxims. Besides; your having 
had children in this city, is an infallible evidence that you 
liked it. In fine, in this very last juncture you might 
have been sentenced to banishment if you would, and 
might then have done, with the consent of the republic, 
what you now attempt without their permission. But you 
were so stately, so unconcerned at death, that in your own 
terms you preferred death to banishment. But now you 
have no regard to those fine words ; you are not further 
concerned for the laws, since you are going to overturn 
them. You do just what a pitiful slave would offer to do, 
by endeavouring to make your escape contrary to the laws 
of the treaty you have signed, by which you obliged your- 
self to live according to our rules. Pray answer us : — did 
not we say right in amrming that you agreed to this treaty, 
and submitted yourself to these terms not only in words, 
but in deeds ? "What shall we say to all this, Crito ? And 
what can we do else but acknowledge that it is so ? 

Crit. How can we avoid it, Socrates ? 

Soc. "What else then, continue they, is this action of 
yours, but a violation of that treaty, and all its terms ? 
That treaty you were not made to sign either by force 
or surprise, or without time to think on it ; for you had 
the whole course of your seventy years to remove in, 
if you had been dissatisfied with us, or unconvinced of 
the justice of our proposals. You neither pitched upon 
Lace demon or Crete, notwithstanding that you always 
cried up their laws ; nor any of the other Grecian cities, 
or strange countries. You have been less out of Athens 
than the lame and the blind ; which is an invincible proof 

* These games were celebrated at the Isthmus of Corinth, to the 
honour of Neptune every three years, after they were received by 
Theseus. 



1 ^ 156 



CRITO ; OR, 



that the city and its laws pleased you in a distinguish- 
ing manner, since a city can never be agreeable if its 
laws are not such. And yet at this time you counter- 
act . the treaty. But, if you will take our advice, So- 
crates, we would have you stand to your treaty, and 
not expose yourself to the ridicule of the citizens, by 
stealing out from hence. Pray consider what advantage 
can redound either to you or your friends, by persisting 
in that design : your friends will infallibly be either 
exposed to danger, or banished their country, or have 
their estates forfeited. And as for yourself, if you retire 
to any neighbouring cit3 r , such as Thebes or Megara, 
which are admirably well governed, you will there be 
looked upon as an enemy. All that have any love for 
their country, will look upon you as a corrupter of the 
laws : besides, you will fortify in them the good opinion 
they have of your judges, and move them to approve the 
sentence given against you : for a corrupter of the law 
will at any time pass for a debaucher of the youth, and of 
the vulgar people. What ! will you keep out of these 
well-governed cities, and these assemblies of just men ? 
or will you have the face to go and live with them ? 
And pray, what will you say to them, Socrates ? Will 
you preach to them, as you did here, that virtue, jus- 
tice, the laws, and ordinances, ought to be reverenced 
by men ? Do not you think that this will sound ridicu- 
lous in their ears ? You ought to think so. But perhaps 
you will quickly leave these well-governed cities, and go to 
Thessaly to Crito's friends,* where there is less order, and 
more licentiousness; and doubtless in that country, they 
will take a singular pleasure in hearing you relate in what 
equipage you made your escape from this prison, that is, 
covered with some old rags, or a beast's skin, or disguised 
some other way, as fugitives are wont to be. Every body 
will say, This old fellow, that has scarce any time to live, 
had such a strong passion for living, that he did not stand 
to purchase his life by trampling under foot the most 
sacred laws. Such stories will be bandied about of you 

* Thessaly was the country where licentiousness and debauchery 
reigned. And accordingly Xenophon observes, that it was there 
that Critias was ruined. 



OF WHAT WE OUGHT TO DO. 



157 



at a time when you offend no man ; but upon the least 
occasion of complaint, they will assail you with a thousand 
reproaches. You will spend your time in sneaking and 
insinuating yourself into the favour of men, one after 
another, and owning an equal subjection to them all. 
For what can you do ? Will you feast perpetually in 
Thessaly, as if the good cheer had drawn you thither ? 
What then will become of all your fine discourses upon 
justice and virtue ? Besides, if you design to preserve 
your life for the sake of your children, it cannot be in 
order to bring them up in Thessaly, as if you could do 
them no other service but make them strangers. Or if you 
design to leave them here, do you imagine that during 
your life they will be better brought up in your absence, 
under the care of your friends ? But will not your friends 
take the same care of them after your death that they 
would do in your absence ? You ought to be persuaded 
that all those who call themselves your friends, will at all 
times do them all the service they can. To conclude, 
Socrates, submit yourself to our reasons, follow the advice 
of those who brought you up, and do not put your children, 
your life, or anything whatever, in the balance with justice; 
to the end that when you arrive before the tribunal of 
Pluto, you may be able to clear yourself before your judges. 
For do not deceive yourself ; if you perform what you now 
design, you will neither better your own cause, nor that of . 
your party ; you will neither enlarge its justice or sanc- 
tity, either here or in the regions below. But if you die 
bravely, you owe your death to the injustice, not of the 
laws, but of men : whereas if you make your escape by 
repulsing so shamefully the injustice of your enemies, by 
violating at once both your own faith and our treaty, and 
injuring so many innocent persons as yourself, your friends, 
and your country, together with us ; we shall be your 
enemies, as long as you live : and when you are dead, our 
sisters, the laws in the other world, will certainly afford 
you no joyful reception, as knowing that you endeavoured 
to ruin us. Wherefore do not prefer Crito's counsel to 
ours. 

Methinks, my dear Crito, I hear what I have now 
spoken, just as the priests of Cybele fancy they hear the 
cornets and flutes ; and the sound of these words makes 

F 



158 



CRTTO . 



so strong an impression in my ears, that it stops me from 
hearing any thing else.* These are the sentiments I like, 
and all you can say to divert me from them, will be to no 
purpose. However, if you think to succeed, I do not 
hinder you from speaking. 

Crit. I have nothing to say, Socrates. 

Soc. Then be easy, and let us bravely run this course, 
since God calls and conducts us to it. 

* Socrates means that all these truths make no slight impression 
upon him, but pierce him, and inspire him with an ardour, or rather 
a holy fury, that stops his ears from hearing any thing to the con- 
trary. The sound of the cornets and flutes of the priests of Cybele 
inspired the audience with fury \ and why should the sound of 
divine truths fall short, of the same virtue, and leave their hearers 
in a lukewarm indifferency? This temper of Socrates unriddles and 
explains what Diogenes said of him : when somebody asked Diogenes 
what he thought of Socrates, he answered, " That he was a mad- 
man f for Socrates shewed an incredible warmth in pursuing what- 
ever he took to be just. 



THE 

INTRODUCTION TO PHEDON. 



Socrates, in his Apology, and in his Crito, teaches us 
how we ought to forri our lives ; and here he instructs us 
how to die, and what thoughts to entertain at the hour of 
death. By explaining his own views and designs, which 
were the springs of all his actions, he furnishes us with a 
proof of the most important of all truths, and of that which 
ought to regulate our life. For the immortality of the soul 
is a point of such importance, that it includes all the truths 
of religion, and ail the motives that ought to excite and 
direct us. So that our first duty is to satisfy ourselves 
in this point : and self-love and mere human interest 
ought to spur us up to understand it ; besides there is 
not a more fatal condition than to be ignorant of the na- 
ture of death : for, according to the notion we have of it, 
we may draw directly opposite consequences for managing 
the conduct of our lives. 

Socrates spends the last day of his life in discoursing 
with his friends upon this great subject : he unfolds all the 
reasons that induce a belief of the immortality of the 
soul, and refutes all the objections moved to the con- 
trary, which are the very same that are made use of at this 
day. He demonstrates the hope they ought to have of a 
happier life ; and lays before them all that this blessed hope 
requires to make it solid and lasting, to prevent their being 
deluded by a vain hope, and after all, meeting with the 
punishment allotted to the wicked, instead of the rewards 
provided for the good, 

This conference was occasioned by a truth that was ca- 
sually started, viz. that a true philosopher ought to desire 
to die, and to endeavour it. This position taken literally, 
seemed to insinuate that a philosopher might lay violent 
hands on himself. But Socrates makes it out that there is 



INTRODUCTION TO PHEDON. 



nothing more unjust : and that as man is God's creature 
and property, he ought not to remove out of this life 
without his orders. What should it be then that made 
the philosopher have such a love of death? What is the 
ground of this hope ? * Here we are presented with the 
grounds assigned by a heathen philosopher, viz. man is 
born to know the truth, but he can never attain to a perfect 
knowledge of it in this life, by reason that his body is an 
obstacle : perfect knowledge is reserved for the life to come. 
Then the soul must be immortal, since after death it ope- 
rates and knows. As for man's being born for the know- 
ledge of truth, that cannot be called in question, since he 
was born to know God. 

From thence it follows, that a true philosopher hates and 
contemns this body, which stands in the way of his union 
to God ; that he wishes to be rid of it, and looks upon 
death as a passage to a better life. This solid hope gives 
being to that true temperance and valour which is the lot 
of true philosophers; for other men are only valiant 
through fear, and temperate through intemperance : their 
virtue is only a slave to vice. 

They object to Socrates, that the soul is nothing but a 
vapour that vanishes and disperses itself at death. Socrates 
combats that opinion with an argument that has a great 
deal of strength in his mouth, but becomes much stronger 
when supported by the true religion, which alone can set it 
in its full light. The argument is this : In nature, contra- 
ries produce their contraries. So that death being an 
operation of nature, ought to produce life, that being its 
contrary; and by consequence the dead must be born 
again : the soul then is not dead, since it must revive the 
body. 

Before we proceed farther, it is fit to take notice of an 
error that is couched under this principle, which only the 
Christian religion can at once discover and refute. It is, 
that Socrates, and all other philosophers, are infinitely 
mistaken in making death a natural thing. There is no- 
thing more false. Death is so far from being natural, that 
nature abhors it; and it was far from the design of God in 

* It could be nothing but the hope of the good things he expected 
in another life. 



INTRODUCTION TO PHEDON . 



161 



the state in which man was first created. For he created 
him holy, innocent, and by consequence immortal; it was 
only sin that brought death into the world. But this fatal 
league betwixt sin and death could not triumph over the 
designs of God, who had created man for immortality. lie 
knew how to snatch the victory out of their hands, by 
bringing man to life again, even in the shades and horrors 
of death itself. Thus shall the dead revive at the resurrec- 
tion, pursuant to the doctrine of the Christians, which 
teaches that death must give up those whom it has swallowed 
down. So that the principle that Socrates did not fully 
comprehend, is an unshaken truth, which bears the marks 
of an ancient tradition that the heathens had altered and 
corrupted. 

The third argument alleged by Socrates as a proof of the 
immortality of the soul, is that of remembrance; which 
likewise bears the marks of that ancient tradition cor- 
rupted by the heathens. To find out the truth couched 
under this argument, I advance the following conjectures. 

That the philosophers grounded this opinion of remem- 
brance upon some texts of the prophets, which they did 
not well understand ; such as that of Jeremiah, "Before I 
formed thee in the belly, I knew thee." Our soul was 
created so as to be adorned with all manner of know- 
ledge suitable to its nature; and now is sensible of its 
having been deprived of the same. The philosophers felt 
this misery, and Avere not admitted to know the true cause ; 
in order to unriddle the mystery, they invented this creation 
of souls before the body, and a remembrance that is the 
consequence thereof. But we who are guided by a surer 
light, know, that if man were not degenerate* he would still 
enjoy the full knowledge of the truths he formerly knew; 
and if he had never been any other than corrupted, he 
would have had no ideas of these truths. This unties the 
knot. Man had knowledge before he was corrupted, and 
after his corruption forgot it. He can recover nothing but 
confused ideas, and stands in need of a new light to illumi- 
nate them. No human reason could have fathomed this. 
It faintly unravelled part of the mystery as well as it could, 
and the explication it gave discovers some footsteps of the 
ancient truth : for it points both to the first state of happi- 

p 2 



162 



INTRODUCTION TO PHEDON. 



ness and knowledge, and to the second of misery and 
obscurity. Thus may we make a useful application of 
the doctrine of remembrance, and the errors of philoso- 
phers may oftentimes serve to establish the most incompre- 
hensible truths of the Christian religion, and shew that the 
heathens did not want traditions relating to them. 

The fourth argument is taken from the nature of the 
soul. Destruction reaches only compounded bodies : but 
we may clearly perceive, that the soul is simple and imma- 
terial, and bears a resemblance of something divine, im- 
mortal, and intelligent: for it embraces the pure essence 
of things; it measures all by ideas which are eternal pat- 
terns, and unites itself to them when the body does not 
hinder it : so that it is spiritual, indissoluble, and conse- 
quently immortal, as being not capable of dissolution by 
any other means than the will of him who created it. 

Notwithstanding the force of the proofs, and their ten- 
dency to keep up this hope in the soul, Socrates and his 
friends own, that it is almost impossible to ward off doubts 
and uncertainties : for our reason is too weak and degene- 
rate to arrive at the full knowledge of truth in this world. 
So that it is a wise man's business to choose from amongst 
those arguments of the philosophers, for the immortality 
of the soul, that which to him seems best, and most for- 
cible, till he obtain a full assurance either of some pro- 
mise, or by some divine revelation; for that is the only 
vessel that is secure from danger. By this the most 
refined Paganism pays homage to the Christian religion, 
and all colour or excuse for incredulity is taken away, 
for the Christian religion affords promises, revelations, and, 
which is yet more considerable, the accomplishment of 
them. 

They moved two objections to Socrates: one, that the 
soul is only the harmony resulting from the just propor- 
tion of the qualities of the body : the other, that though 
the soul be more durable than the body, yet it dies at last, 
after having made use of several bodies ; just as a man dies 
after he has worn several suits of clothes. 

Socrates, before he makes any answer, stops a little, and 
deplores the misfortune of men, who by hearing the dis- 
putes of the ignorant, that contradict every thing, persuade 



INTRODUCTION TO PHEDON. 



163 



themselves that there is no such thing as clear, solid, and 
sensible reasons, but that every thing is uncertain. Like 
those who being cheated by men, become men-haters ; 
so they being imposed upon by arguments, become haters 
of reason; that is, they take up an absolute hatred against 
all reason in general, and will not hear any argument. 
Socrates makes out the injustice of this procedure. He 
shews, that when two things are equally uncertain, wisdom 
directs us to choose that which is most advantageous with 
the least danger. Now, beyond all dispute, such is the 
immortality of the soul; and therefore it ought to be em- 
braced. For if this opinion prove true after our death, 
are not we considerable gainers ? And if it prove false, 
what do we lose? 

Then he attacks that objection which represents the soul 
as a harmony, and refutes it by solid and convincing argu- 
ments, which at the same time prove the immortality of 
the soul. 

His arguments are these : Harmony always depends 
upon the parts that conspire together, and is never oppo- 
site to them ; but the soul has no dependence upon the 
body, and always stands on the opposite side. Harmony 
admits of less andmore, but the soul does not : from whence 
it would follow, that all souls should be equal, that none 
of them are vicious, and that the souls of beasts are equally 
good, and of the same nature with those of men: which is 
contrary to all reason. 

In music, the body commands the harmony ; but in na- 
ture, the soul commands the body. In music, the har- 
mony can never give a sound contrary to the particular 
sounds of the parts that bend or unbend, or move: but in 
nature the soul has a contrary sound to that of the body ; 
it attacks all its passions and desires, it checks, curbs, and 
punishes the body. So that it must needs be of a very 
different and opposite nature ; which proves its spiri- 
tuality and divinity. For nothing but what is spiritual 
and divine can be wholly opposite to what is material and 
earthly. 

The second objection was, that though the soul 
might outlive the body, yet that does not conclude its 
immortality ; since we know nothing to the contrary, 



164 



INTRODUCTION TO PHEDON. 



but that it dies at last, after having animated several 
bodies. 

In answer to this objection, Socrates says we must trace 
the first original of the being and corruption of entities. 
If that be once agreed upon, we shall find no difficulty in 
determining what things are corruptible and what are not. 
But what path shall we follow in this inquiry ? Must it 
be that of physics ? These physics are so uncertain, that 
instead of being instructive, they only blind and mislead 
us. This he makes out from his own experience. So that 
there is a necessity of going beyond this science, and hav- 
ing recourse to metaphysics, which alone can afford us the 
certain knowledge of the reasons and causes of beings, and 
of that which constitutes their essences. For effects may 
be discovered by their causes ; but the causes can never 
be known by their effects. And upon this account we 
must have recourse to the divine knowledge, which Anaxa- 
goras was so sensible of, that he ushered in his treatise of 
physics by this great principle: That "knowledge is the 
cause of being." But instead of keeping up to that prin- 
ciple, he fell in again with that of second causes, and by 
that means deceived the expectation of his hearers. 

In order to make out the immortality of the soul, we 
must correct this order of Anaxagoras, and sound to the 
bottom the above-mentioned principle: which if we do, 
we shall be satisfied that God placed every thing in the 
most convenient state. Now this best and most suitable 
state must be the object of our inquiry. To which pur- 
pose we must know wherein the particular good of every 
particular thing consists, and what the general good of all 
things is. This discovery will prove the immortality of 
the soul. 

In this view Socrates raises his thoughts to immaterial 
qualities, and eternal ideas : that is, he affirms that there 
is something that is in itself, good, fine, just, and great, 
which is the first cause ; and that all things in this world 
that are good, fine, just, or great, are only such by the 
communication of that first cause : since there is no other 
cause of the existence of things, but the participation of 
the essence proper to each subject. 

This participation is so contrived, that contraries are 



INTRODUCTION TO PHEDON. 



165 



never found in the same subject. From which principle 
it follows by a necessary consequence, that the soul, which 
gives life to the body, not as an accidental form that ad- 
heres to it, but as a substantial form, subsisting in itself, 
and living formally by itself, as the corporeal idea, and 
effectually enlivening the body, can never be subject to 
death, that being the opposite of life : and that the soul 
being incapable of dying, cannot be injured by any attack 
of this enemy ; and is in effect imperishable, like the im- 
material qualities, justice, fortitude, and temperance : but 
with this difference, that these immaterial qualities subsist 
independently and of themselves, as being the same thing 
with God himself; whereas the soul is a created being, 
that may be dissolved by the will of its Creator. In a word, 
the soul stands in the same relation to the life of the body, 
that the idea of God does to the soul. 

The only objection they could invent upon this head, 
was, that the greatness of the subject, and man's natural 
infirmity, are the two sources of man's distrust and incre- 
dulity upon this head. Whereupon Socrates endeavours 
to dry up those two sources. 

He attacks their distrust, by shewing, that the opinion 
of the soul's immortality, suits all the ideas of God. For, 
by this mortality, virtue would be prejudicial to men of pro- 
bity, and vice beneficial to the wicked ; which cannot be 
imagined. So that there is a necessity of another life for 
rewarding the good and punishing the bad. And the soul 
being immortal, carries along with it into the other world 
its good and bad actions, its virtues and vices, which are 
the occasion of its eternal happiness or misery. From 
whence, by a necessary consequence, we may gather what 
care we ought to have of it in this life. 

To put a stop to the torrent of incredulity, he has re- 
course to two things, which naturally demand a great 
deference from man, and cannot be denied without a visi- 
ble authority. The first is, the ceremonies and sacrifices 
of religion itself, which are only representations of what 
would be put in execution in hell. The other is, the 
authority of antiquity, which maintained the immortality 
of the soul : in pursuit of which, he mentions some ancient 
traditions, that point to the truth published by Moses and 
the prophets, notwithstanding the fables that overwhelm 



166 



INTRODUCTION TO PHEDON. 



them. Thus we see, a Pagan supplies the want of proof, 
which is too natural to man, and silences the most obsti- 
nate prejudices, by having recourse to the oracles of God, 
which they were in some measure acquainted with ; and 
by so doing, makes answer to Simmias, who had objected, 
that the doctrine of the immortality of the soul stood in 
need of some promise or divine revelation to procure its 
reception. Though some blinded Christians reject the 
authority of our Holy Writ, and refuse to submit to it ; 
yet we see a Pagan had so much light as to make use of it 
to support his faith, if I may so speak, and to strengthen 
his sweet hope of a blessed eternity. He shews, that he 
knew how to distinguish the fabulous part of a tradition 
from the truth, and affirms nothing but what is conforma- 
ble to the Scriptures, particularly the last judgment of the 
good and the bad; the eternal torments of those who 
committed mortal sins in this life; the pardon of sins 
after repentance ; the happiness of those who during the 
whole course of their lives renounced the pleasures of 
the body, and only courted the pleasure of true know- 
ledge, that is, the knowledge of God; and beautified 
their souls with proper ornaments, such as temperance, 
justice, fortitude, liberty and truth. He does not joke 
upon the groundless metempsychosis, or return of souls 
to animate bodies in this life; but speaks seriously, 
and shews that after death all is over, the wicked are 
thrown for ever into the bottomless abyss, and the 
righteous conveyed to mansions of bliss. Those who 
are neither righteous nor wicked, but committed sins in 
this life, which they always repented of, are committed to 
places of torment, till they be sufficiently purified. 

When Socrates made an end of his discourse, his friends 
asked what orders he would give concerning his affairs. 
" The only orders I give," replied he, " is to take care of 
yourselves, and to make yonrselves as like to God as pos- 
sible." Then they asked him, how he would be interred? 
This question offended him. He would not have himself 
confounded with his corpse, which was only to be interred. 
And though the expression seems to import little, he 
shewed that such false expressions gave very dangerous 
wounds to the souls of men. 

He goes and bathes. His wife and children are brought 



INTRODUCTION TO PHEDON. 



167 



to him. He talks to them a minute, and then dismisses 
them. Upon his coming out of the hath, the cup is pre- 
sented to him. He takes it, recollects his thoughts within 
himself, prays, and chinks it off, with an admirable tran- 
quillity of mind. Finding that he approached his end, he 
gave them to know that he resigned his soul into the hands 
of him who gave it, and of the true physician who was 
coming to heal it. This was the exit of Socrates. Pa- 
ganism never afforded such an admirable example. And 
yet a modern author is so ignorant of its beauty, that he 
places it infinitely below that of Petronius, the famous 
disciple of Epicurus. " He did not employ the last hours 
of his life," says that author, i( in discoursing of the im- 
mortality of the soul, &c. but having chose a more plea- 
surable and natural sort of death, imitated the sweetness 
of the swans, and caused some agreeable and touching 
verses to be recited to hini." This was a fine imitation. 
It seems Petronius sung what they read to him. But this 
was not all. " Nevertheless," continues he, cc he reserved 
some minutes for thinking of his affairs, and distributed 
rewards to some of his slaves, and punished others." 

" Let them talk of Socrates," says he, " and boast of his 
constancy and bravery in drinking up the poison ! Petro- 
nius is not behind him ; nay, he is justly entitled to a pre- 
ference upon the score of his forsaking a life infinitely 
more delightful than that of the sage Grecian, and that 
too with the same tranquillity of mind and evenness of 
temper.' 3 

"VTe have no need of long comments to make out the vast 
difference between the death of Socrates and that of this 
Epicurean, whom Tacitus himself, notwithstanding his pa- 
ganism, did not dare to applaud. On one side, we are pre- 
sented with the view of a man that spent his last minutes 
in making his friends better, recommending to them the 
hope of a blessed eternity, and shewing what that hope 
requires of them ; a man that died with his eyes intent 
upon God, praying to him, and blessing him, without any 
reflections upon his enemies who condemned him so 
unjustly. On the other side, we meet with a voluptuous 
person, in whom all sentiments of virtue are quite extin- 
guished ; who, to be rid of his own fears, occasioned his 
own death ; and in his exit would admit of no other enter- 



168 



INTRODUCTION TO PHEDON, 



tainment but agreeable poems and pleasant verses; who 
spent the last minutes of his time in rewarding those of his 
slaves, who doubtless had been the ministers and accom- 
plices of his sensualities, and seeing those punished who 
perhaps had shewn an aversion to his vices. A good death 
ought to be ushered in by a good life. Now, a life spent in 
vice, effeminacy and debauchery, is far short of one entirely 
taken up in the exercise of virtue, and the solid pleasures of 
true knowledge, and adorned with the venerable ornaments 
of temperance, justice, fortitude, liberty, and truth. One 
of Socrates' s dying words was, that those who entertained 
bad discourses upon death, wounded the soul very danger- 
ously. And what would not he have said of those who 
scruple not to write them. 

But it is probable our author did not foresee the conse- 
quence of this unjust preference. He wrote like a man of 
the world, that knew not Socrates. Had he known him, 
he had certainly formed a juster judgment. And in like 
manner, if he had known Seneca or Plutarch, he had never 
equalled or preferred Petronius to them. Had he made the 
best use of his understanding, he would have seen reasons 
to doubt, that the Petronius we now read, is not the Petronius 
of Tacitus, whose death he so much admires ; and would 
have met with some such objections, which at least give 
occasion to suspect its being suppositious. But to return 
to Socrates. 

His doctrine of " death being no affliction, but, on the 
contrary, a passage to a happier life," made a considerable 
progress. Some philosophers gave such lively and forcible 
demonstrations of it in their lectures, that the greatest part 
of their disciples laid violent hands on themselves, in order 
to overtake that happier life. Ptolemseus Philadelphus pro- 
hibited Hegesias of Cyrene to teach it in his school, for 
fear of dispeopling his countries. And the poets of that 
prince's court siding with their prince, as they commonly 
do, used all means to decry that doctrine, and those who 
were prevailed upon to embrace it. It was their pernicious 
complaisance that occasioned what we now read in Calli- 
niachus against the immortality of the soul ; and above all, 
that famous epigram which Cicero alleges to have been writ 
against Cleombrotus of Ambracia, but was certainly de- 



phedon; or, a dialogue. 



169 



signed likewise against Plato. It is to this purpose : 
" Cleombrotus of Ambracia having paid his last compliment 
to the sun, threw himself headlong from the top of a 
tower into hell ; not that he had done any thing worthy of 
death, but only had read Plato's treatise of the immortality 
of the soul." 

But after all, it redounds to the glory of Socrates and 
Plato, and the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, that 
none but such enemies as these oppose it. 



PHEDON: 

OR, 

A DIALOGUE OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



ECHECRATES AND PHEDON. 

Echec. Phedon, were you by when Socrates drank the 
poison? or did any body give you an account how he 
behaved in that juncture? 

Phed. I was present. 

Echec. What were his last words then, and how died 
he ? You will oblige me much with the relation : for the 
Phliasians* have but little correspondence with the 
Athenians, and it is a great while since we had any stranger 
from Athens to acquaint us how things went. We only 
heard that he died after drinking the poison, but could not 
understand any particulars relating to his death. 

Phed. What ! did not you hear how he was arraigned ? 

Echec. Yes, truly, somebody told us that; and we 
thought it strange that his sentence was so long in being 
put in execution after his trial. 

Phed. That happened only by chance : f for the day 

* The inhabitants of Phlius, a city in the Peloponnesus. 

t Phedon's discourse implies that the time of the ship's departure 
was uncertain : it was either anticipated or retarded, as the condi- 
tion of the ship and other occurrences required. This uncertainly 
occasions the difficulty of finding the true date of Socrates's death. 

a 



170 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



before iiis trial, the stern of the sacred ship which the 
Athenians send every year to Delos, was crowned for the 
voyage. 

Echec. What is that sacred ship ? 

Phed. If you believe the Athenians, it is the same ship 
in which Theseus transported the fourteen young children 
to Crete, and brought them safe back again ; and it is said 
the Athenians at that time vowed to Apollo, that if the 
children were preserved from the impending danger, they 
would send every year to Delos presents and victims aboard 
the same vessel ; and this they do ever since. As soon as 
the ship is cleared, and ready to put to sea, they purify the 
city, and observe an inviolable law for putting none to death 
before the return of the ship. Now sometimes it stays 
long out, especially if the winds be contrary. This festival, 
which is properly called Theoria, commences when the 
priest of Apollo has crowned the stern of the ship. Now, 
as I told you, this happened on the day preceding Socrates' s 
trial. And it was upon that account that he was kept so 
long in prison, after his commitment. 

Echec. And during his imprisonment, what did he do? 
What said he? Who was with him? Did the judges order 
him to be kept from visits ? And did he die without the 
assistance of his friends ? 

Phed. Not at all : several of his friends staid with him 
to the last minute. 

Ethec. If you are at leisure, pray relate the whole story. 

Phed. At present I have nothing to do, and so shall 
endeavour to satisfy your demands. Besides, I take the 
greatest pleasure in speaking or hearing others speak of 
Socrates.* 

Ethec. Assure yourself, Phedon, you shall not take more 
pleasure in speaking, than I in hearing. Begin, pray, and 
above all, take care to omit nothing. 

Phed. You will be surprised when you hear what a con- 
dition I was then in. I was so far from being sensibly 
touched with the misfortune of a friend whom I loved very 

* Phedon had been infinitely obliged to Socrates ; for being taken 
prisoner in war, and sold to a merchant that bought slaves, Socrates, 
who was mighty fond of his genius, obliged Alcibiades or Crito to 
ransom him, and received him into the number of his friends and 
disciples. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 171 

tenderly, and who died before my eyes, that I envied his 
circumstances, and could not forbear to admire the good- 
ness, sweetness, and tranquillity, that appeared in all his 
discourses, and the bravery he shewed upon the approach 
of death. Every thing that I saw, furnished me with a 
proof that he did not pass to the shades below without the 
assistance of some Deity, that took care to conduct him, 
and put him in possession of that transcendent felicity of 
the blessed. But as, on the one hand, these thoughts stifled 
all the sentiments of compassion that might seem due at 
such a mortifying sight; so, on the other hand, they les- 
sened the pleasure I was wont to have in hearing all his 
other discourses, and affected me with that sorrowful re- 
flection, that in the space of a minute this divine man 
would leave us for ever. Thus was my heart tossed with 
contrary emotions, that I can not define. It was not pro- 
perly either pleasure or grief, but a confused mixture of 
these two passions, which produced almost the same effect 
in all the by-standers. One while we melted into tears, 
and another time gave surprising signs of real joy and 
sensible pleasure. Above all, Apollodorus* distinguished 
himself upon this occasion ; you know his humour. 
Echec. Nobody knows it better. 

Phed. . In him was the difference of these emotions most 
observable. As for me, and all the rest, our behaviour 
was not so distinguishing, as being mixed with the trouble 
and confusion I spoke of just now. 

Echec. Who was there then beside yourself ? 

Phed. There were no other Athenians, but Apollodorus, 
Critobulus, and his father Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, 
iEschines, Antisthenes, Ctesippus, Menexemus, and a few 
more. Plato was sick. 

Echec. Were there no strangers ? 

Phed. Yes; Simmias the Theban, with Cebes,f and 
Phedondes ; and from Megara, Euclides and Terpsion. 

* The same Apollodorus is spoken of in the Apology. 

+ The same Cebes, who made the table that we now have; which 
is an explication of an allegorical table, that he supposes to have 
been in the temple of Saturn at Thebes ; and contains a very in- 
genious scheme of a man's whole life. It hints at ail the doctrine 
of Socrates, and the style resembles that of Plato. 



172 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



Eckec. What ! were not Aristippus and Cleombrotus 
there ? 

Pked. No, sure; for it is said, they were at iEgina,* 
Eckec. Who was there besides ? 

Pked. I believe I have named most of those that were 
present. 

Eckec. Let us hear then what his last discourses were. 

Pked. I will endeavour to give you a full account. For 
we never missed one day in visiting Socrates. To this 
end, we met every morning in the place where he was 
tried, which joined to the prison ; and there we waited till 
the prison-doors were open ; at which time we went straight 
to him, and there commonly passed the whole day. 
On the day of his execution, we came thither sooner than 
ordinary, having heard as we came out of the city, that the 
ship was returned from Delos. When we arrived, the 
gaoler that used to let us in, came out to us, and desired 
we should stay a little, and not go in till he came to con- 
duct us. For, says he, the eleven magistratesf are now 
untying Socrates, and acquainting him that he must die, 
this day. When we came in, we found Socrates untied, J 
and his wife Xantippe (you know her) sitting by him with 

* The delicacy and point of this satire, is thus explained by Deme- 
trius Phalereus. Plato, says he, had a mind to suppress the scan- 
dal that Aristippus and Cleombrotus drew upon themselves, by feast- 
ing at iEgina, when Socrates, their friend and master, was in prison, 
without deigning to go to see him, or even to assist on the day of 
his death, though they were then at the entry of the Athenian har- 
bour. Had he told the whole story, the invective had been too par- 
ticular. But with an admirable decency and artfulness he introduces 
Phedon, giving a list of those who assisted at his death, and making 
answer to the question, (Whether they were there or not?) That 
they were at iEgina ; pointing at once to their debauchery and ingra- 
titude. This stroke is the more biting, that the thing itself paints 
out the horror of the action, and not he that speaks. Plato might 
securely have attacked Aristippus and Cleombrotus ; but he chose 
rather to make use of this figure, which in effect gives the greater 
blow. This is a notable piece of delicate satire. Athenseus, by 
charging Plato with slander upon this score, prejudiced himself 
more than Plato, who will always be cried up for having this zeal 
for his master. 

t These magistrates were the overseers of the prison and prison- 
ers, and executed the sentences of the judges. 

% At Athens, after the sentence was pronounced to the criminal, 
they untied him, as being a victim to death, which it was not lawful 
to keep in chains. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



173 



one of his children in her arms ; and as soon as she spied 
us, she fell a crying and making a noise, as you know wo- 
men generally do on such occasions. " Socrates," said 
she, " this is the last time your friends shall see you." 
Upon which, Socrates, turning to Crito, says, (i Crito, pray 
send this woman home." Accordingly it was done. Crito's 
folks carried Xantippe off, who beat her face and cried bit- 
terly. In the mean time, Socrates, sitting upon the bed, 
softly strokes the place of his leg where the chain had 
been tied, and says, fc To my mind what men call plea- 
sure, is a pretty odd sort of a thing, which agrees admi- 
rably well with pain; though people believe it is quite 
contrary, because they cannot meet in one and the same 
subject. For, whoever enjoys the one, must unavoidably 
be possessed of the other, as if they were naturally joined. 
Had iEsop been aware of this truth, perhaps he had 
made a fable of it, and had told us, that God designing to 
reconcile these two enemies, and not being able to compass 
his end, contented himself with tying them to one chain, 
so that ever since the one follows the other, according to 
my experience at this minute; for the pain occasioned by 
my chain, is now followed with a great deal of pleasure." 

I am infinitely glad, replies Cebes, interrupting him, 
that you have mentioned iEsop. For by so doing, you have 
put it in my head to ask you a question, that many have 
asked me of late, especially Evenus.* The question re- 
lates to your poems, in turning the fables of iEsop into 
verse, and making a hymn to Apollo. They want to know 
what moved you, that never made verses before, to turn 
poet since you came into the prison ? If Evenus asks 
the same question of me again, as I know he will, what 
would you have me say ? 

You have nothing to do, says Socrates, but to tell him 
the plain matter of fact as it stands, viz. that I did not at 
all mean to rival him in poetry, for I knew such an at- 
tempt was above my reach, but only to trace the meaning 
of some dreams, and put myself in a capacity of obeying, 
in case poetry happened to be the music that they allotted 

* Evenus of Paros, an elegiac poet, the first that said, Habit was a 
second nature. 

Q. 2 



174 



phedon; or, a dialogue 



for my exercise. For you must know, that all my life- 
time I have had dreams, which always recommended the 
same thing to me, sometimes in one form, and sometimes 
in another. Socrates, said they, apply yourself to music. 
This I always took for a simple exhortation, like that com- 
monly given to those who run races, ordering me to pur- 
sue my wonted course of life, and carry on the study of 
wdsdom, that I made my whole business, which is the most 
perfect music. But since my trial, the festival of Apollo 
having retarded the execution of my sentence, I fancied 
these dreams might have ordered me to apply myself to 
that vulgar and common sort of music : and since I was 
departing this world, I thought it safer to sanctify myself 
by obeying the Gods, and essaying to make verses, than 
to disobey them. Pursuant to this thought, my first essay 
was a hymn to the God, whose festival was then celebrated. 
After that, I considered, that a true poet ought not only to 
make discourses in verse, but likewise fables. Now find- 
ing myself not disposed to invent new fables, I applied 
myself to those of iEsop, and turned those into verse that 
came first into my mind. 

This, my dear Cebes, is the answer you are to give 
Evenus ; assuring him, that I wish him all happiness ; 
and tell him, that if he be wise he will follow me ; for in 
all appearance I am to make my exit this day, since the 
Athenians have given orders to that effect. 

What sort of counsel is that you give to Evenus ? re- 
plies Simmias ; I have seen that man often: and by what 
I know of him, I can promise you, he will never willingly 
follow you. 

What, says Socrates, is not Evenus a philosopher ? 
I think so, says Simmias. 

Then, replies Socrates, he and all others that are worthy 
of that profession, will be willing to follow me. I know 
he will not kill himself, for that, they say, is not lawful. 
Having spoken these words, he drew his legs off the bed, 
and sat down upon the ground, in which posture he en- 
tertained us the whole remaining part of the day. 

Cebes put the first question to him, which was this : 
How do you reconcile this, Socrates, that it is not lawful 
to kill one's self, and at the same time that a philosopher 
ought to follow you ? 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



175 



What, replies Socrates, did neither you, nor Simmias 
ever hear your friend Philolaus* discourse that point ? 

No, replied they, he never explained himself clearly 
upon that point. 

As for me, replies Socrates, I know nothing but what 
I have heard, and shall not grudge to communicate all 
that I have learned. Besides, there is no exercise so suit- 
able for a man upon the point of death, as that of examin- 
ing and endeavouring thoroughly to know what voyage 
this is that we must all make, and making known his own 
opinion upon it. 

What is the ground of that assertion, says Cebes, that 
it is not lawful for a man to kill himself ? I have often 
heard Philolaus, and others say, that it was an ill action, 
but I never heard them say more. 

Have patience, says Socrates, you shall know more pre- 
sently, and perhaps you will be surprised to find it an 
eternal truth that never changes ; whereas most other 
things in this world alter according to their circumstances : 
this is still the same, even in the case of those to whom 
death would be more agreeable than life. Is it not a sur- 
prising thing, that such men are not allowed to possess 
themselves of the good they want, but are obliged to wait 
for another deliverer ? 

Jupiter only knows that, replies Cebes smiling. 

This may seem unreasonable to you, says Socrates, but 
after all, it is not so. The discourses we are entertained 
with every day in our ceremonies and mysteries, viz. "that 
God has put us in this life, as in a post which we cannot 
quit without his leave," &c. These, I say, and such like 
expressions, may seem hard, and surpass our understand- 
ing. But nothing is easier to be understood, or better 
said, than this : "That the Gods take care of men, and that 
men are one of the possessions that belong to the Gods." 
Is not this true ? 4 

Very true, replies Cebes. 

Would not you yourself, continues Socrates, be angry if 

* Philolaus was a Pythagorean philosopher, who could not fail to 
assert his master's doctrine, of the unlawfulness of self-murder. 
He wrote only one volume, which Plato purchased at 400 crowns. 



176 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



one, of your slaves killed himself without your order, and 
would not you punish him severely if you could ? 
Yes, doubtless, replies Cebes. 

By the same reason, says Socrates, a man should not 
kill himself, but should wait for an express order from 
God, for making his exit, like this sent to me now. 

That stands to reason, says Cebes; but your saying, that 
a philosopher ought nevertheless to desire to die, is what 
I think strange, and I cannot reconcile these two opinions; 
especially, if it be true, which you said just now, that the 
Gods take care of men as being their property ; for that a 
philosopher should not be troubled to be without the Gods 
for his guardians, and to quit a life where such perfect be- 
ings, (the better governors of the world,) take care of him, 
seems very unreasonable to me. Do they imagine, they 
will be more capable to govern themselves, when left to 
themselves ? I can easily conceive that a fool may think 
it his duty to flee from a good master at any rate ; and 
will not be convinced that he ought to stick to what is 
good, and never lose sight of it : but I affirm, that a wise 
man will never desire to quit a dependence upon one 
more perfect than himself. From whence I infer the con- 
trary of what you advanced, and conclude, that the wise 
are sorry to die, and that fools are fond of death. 

Socrates seemed to be pleased with Cebes' s wit; and turn- 
ing to us, told us, that Cebes had always something to 
object, and takes care not to assent at first to what is told 
him. 

Indeed, replies Simmias, I must say, I find a great deal 
of reason in what Cebes advances. What can the sages 
pretend to gain, by quitting better masters than them- 
selves, and willingly depriving themselves of their aid ? 
Do you mind that : it is you alone that he addresses him- 
self to, meaning to reprove you for your insensibility, in 
being so willing to part with us, and quit the Gods, who, 
according to your own words, are such good and wise 
governors. 

You are in the right of it, says Socrates . I see you mean 
to oblige me to make formal defences, such as I gave in at 
my trial. 

That is the very thing, replies Simmias. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



177 



Then, says Socrates, you must satisfy yourselves, so tliat 
this my last apology may have more influence upon you, 
than my former upon my judges. For my part, continues 
he, if I thought I should not find in the other world Gods 
as good and as wise, and men infinitely hetter than we 
are here, it would be a piece of injustice in me not to be 
troubled at death. But, be it known to you Simmias, 
and to you Cebes, that I hope to arrive at the assembly 
of the just. Indeed in this point, I may flatter myself, 
but as for finding masters infinitely good and wise, that I 
can assure you of, as much as things of that nature will 
bear ; and therefore it is, that death is no trouble to me, 
hoping that there is something reserved for the dead, after 
this life ; and that the good meet with better treatment in 
the world to come, than the bad, 

How, replies Simmias, would you have quitted this life, 
without communicating those sentiments to us ? This, 
methinks, will be a common good ; and if you convince 
us of all that you believe, with reference to this point, you 
have made a sufficient apology. 

That is what I design to try, says Socrates, but I would 
first hear what Crito has to say: I thought he had a mind 
to offer something a good while ago. 

I have nothing to say, replies Crito, but what your exe- 
cutioner has been pushing me on to tell you this great 
while, that you ought to speak as little as you can, for fear 
of overheating yourself, since nothing is more contrary to 
the operation of poison ; insomuch, that if you continue 
to speak so, you will be obliged to take two or three 
doses.* 

Let him do his office, says Socrates, let him make ready 
two doses of poison, or three if he will. 

I knew you would give me that answer, replies Crito; 
but still he importunes me to speak to you. 

Pray let that alone, says Socrates, and suffer me to explain 
before you, who are my judges, for what reasons, a man 

* Probably the executioner meant by this advice to keep fair with 
Socrates, and save his money ; for he was to furnish the hemlock, 
of which a pound (the common dose) cost 12 drachms, i. e. 3 livres 
and See Plutarch upon the death of Phocion, who was obliged 

to pay his executioner for a dose of poison. 



178 



phebon; or, a dialogue 



enlightened by philosophy, ought to die with courage a ad 
a firm hope, that in the other world he shall enjoy a felicity 
beyond any thing in this. Pray do you, Simmias and 
Cebes, listen to my arguments. 

True philosophers make it the whole business of their 
life-time to learn to die. Now it is extremely ridiculous 
for them, after they run out a whole course incessantly, in 
order to compass that one end, to flinch and be afraid 
when it comes up to them, when they are just in a capa- 
city of obtaining it after a long and painful search. 

Whereupon Simmias laughed, and said, In earnest, 
Socrates, you make me laugh, notwithstanding the small 
occasion I have to laugh in this juncture. For I am cer- 
tain the greatest part of these who hear you talk so, *will 
say you talk much better of the philosophers than you 
believe. Above all, the Athenians would be glad that all 
the philosophers should learn that lesson so well, as to die 
in effect; and they will be ready to tell you, Death is the 
only thing they are worthy of.* 

Simmias, replies Socrates, our Athenians would so speak 
the truth, but without knowing it to be such : for they are 
ignorant in what manner philosophers desire to die, or how 
they are worthy of it. But let us leave the Athenians to 
themselves, and talk of things within our own company : 
Does death appear to be any thing to you ? 

Yes, without doubt, replies Simmias. 

Is it not, continues Socrates, the separation of soul and 
body, so that the body has one separate being, and the 
soul another ? 

Just so, says Simmias. 

Let us try then, my dear Simmias, if your thoughts and 
mine agree : by that means we shall set the object of our 
present enquiry in a clearer light. Do you think a philo- 
sopher courts what the world calls pleasure, as that of 
eating, drinking, &e. 

Not at all, Socrates. 

Nor that of love? 

By no means. 

* A satirical rub upon the Athenians, who coukl not abide philoso- 
phers. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 1/9 

Do you think they pursue or mind the other pleasures 
relating to the body, such as good clothes, handsome 
shoes, and the other ornaments of the body ? Whether 
do you think they value or slight those things, when ne- 
cessity does not enforce their use ? 

In my mind, replies Simmias, a true philosopher must 
needs contemn them. 

Then you believe, continues Socrates, that the body is 
not at all the object of the care and business of a philoso- 
pher, but on the contrary, that his whole business is to sepa- 
rate himself from it, and mind only the concerns of his soul. 

Most certainly. 

Thus, continues Socrates, it is plain upon the whole, 
that a philosopher labours in a more distinguishing man- 
ner than other men, to purchase the freedom of his soul, 
and cut off all commerce between it and the body. I am 
likewise of the opinion, Simmias, that most men will 
grant, that whoever avoids these corporeal things, and 
takes no pleasure in them, * is not worthy to live ; and 
that he who does not use the pleasures of the body, is near 
to death. 

You speak truth, Socrates. 

But what shall we say of the acquiring of prudence ? 
Is the body an obstacle or not, when employed in that 
work ? I will explain my meaning by an example : Have 
seeing and hearing any thing of truth in them, and is 
their testimony faithful ? Or, are the poets in the right 
in singing, that we neither see nor hear things truly ? For, 
if these two senses of seeing and hearing are not true and 
trusty, the others, which are much weaker, will be far less 
such. Do not you think so ? 

Yes, without doubt, replies Simmias. 

"When does the soul then, continues Socrates, find out 
the truth? We see, that while the body is joined in the 
enquiry, this body plainly cheats and seduces it. 

That is true, says Simmias. 

Is it not by reasoning that the soul embraces truths ? 

* It is a truth acknowledged by almost all the world, that he who 
does not enjoy the pleasures of the body, is not worthy to live. So 
that it is a true saying, that a philosopher is worthy of nothing but 
death. 



183 



PHEDON; OR, A DIALOGUE 



And does it not reason better than before, when it is not en- 
cumbered by seeing or hearing, by pain or pleasure ? When 
shut up within itself, it bids adieu to the body, and enter- 
tains as little correspondence with it as possible : and 
pursues the knowledge of things without touching them. 
That is incomparably well spoken. 

Is it not, especially upon this occasion, that the soul of 
a philosopher despises and avoids the body, and wants to 
be by itself ? 

I think so. 

What shall we say then, my dear Simmias, of all the 
objects of the soul ? For instance, shall we call justice 
something or nothing ? 

We must certainly give it the title of something. 

Shall we not likewise call it good and fine ? 

Ay, doubtless. 

But did you ever see these objects with the eyes of your 
body ? 

No, to be sure. 

Or with any other sense ? Did you ever touch any of 
those things, such as magnitude, health, fortitude, and, in 
a word, the essence of all other things ? Is the truth of 
them discovered by the body ? Or is it not certain, that 
whoever puts himself in a condition to examine them more 
narrowly, and trace them to the bottom, will better com- 
pass the end, and know more of them ? 

That is very true. 

Now the simplest and purest way of examining things, 
is to pursue every particular by thought alone, without 
offering to support our meditation by seeing, or backing 
our reasonings by any other corporal sense ; by employ- 
ing the naked thought without any mixture, and so endea- 
vouring, to trace the pure and genuine essence of things 
without the ministry of the eyes or ears : the soul being, 
if I may so speak, entirely disengaged from the whole 
mass of body, which only cumbers the soul, and cramps it 
in the quest of wisdom and truth, as often as it is admitted 
to the least correspondence with it. If the essence of 
things be ever known, must it not be in the manner above 
mentioned ! 

Right, Socrates ; you have spoken admirably well. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOTJL. 181 



Is it not then, continues Socrates, a necessary consequence 
from this principle, that true philosophers should have such 
language among themselves ? This life is a road that is 
apt to mislead us and our reason in all our inquiries ; be- 
cause while we have a body, and our soul is drowned 
in so much corruption, we shall never attain the object of 
our wishes, i. e. truth. The body throws in a thousand 
obstacles and crosses in our way, by demanding necessary 
food ; and then the diseases that ensue, do quite disor- 
der our inquiry: besides it fills us with love, desires, fears, 
and a thousand foolish imaginations, insomuch that there 
is nothing truer than the common saying, that " the body 
will never conduct us to wisdom.' ' What is it that gives 
rise to wars, and occasions sedition and duelling? Is it 
not the body and its desiies ? In effect, all wars arise 
from the desire of riches, which we are forced to heap up 
for the sake of our body, in order to supply its wants, and 
serve it like slaves ; it is this that cramps our application 
to philosophy. And the greatest of all our evils is, that 
when it has given us some respite, and we are set upon me- 
ditation, it steals in and interrupts our thoughts all of a 
sudden. It cumbers, troubles, and surprises us in such a 
manner, that it hinders us from descrying the truth. Now 
we have shown that in order to trace the purity and 
truth of any thing, we should lay aside the body, and only 
employ the soul to examine the objects we pursue. So that 
we can never arrive at the wisdom we court, till after death. 
Reason is on our side. For if it is impossible to know any 
thing purely while we are in the body, one of these two 
things must be true : either the truth is never known, or 
it is known after death ; because at that time the soul will 
be left to itself, and freed of its burden, and not before. 
And while we are in this life, we can only approach to the 
truth in proportion to our removing from the body, and 
renouncing all correspondence with it, that is not of mere 
necessity, and keeping ourselves clear from the contagion 
of its natural corruption, and all its filth, till God himself 
conies to deliver us. Then indeed being freed from all 
bodily infirmity, we shall converse in all probability with 
men that enjoy the same liberty, and shall know within 
ourselves the pure essence of things, which perhaps is no- 
thing else but truth. But he who is not pure, is not allowed 



182 



PHEDON; OR, A DIALOGUE 



to approaeh to purity itself. This, my dear Simmias, as I 
take it, should be the thought and language of true philo- 
sophers. Are not you of the same mind ? 
Most certainly, Socrates. 

Then, my dear Simmias, whoever shall arrive where I am 
now going, has great reason to hope, that he will there he 
possessed of what we look for here with so much care and 
anxiety ; so that the voyage I am now sent upon, fills me 
with a sweet and agreeable hope. And it will have the 
same effect upon all who are persuaded that the soul must 
be purged before it knows the truth. Now the purgation 
of the soul, as we were saying just now, is only its sepa- 
ration from the body, its accustoming itself to retire and 
lock itself up, renouncing all commerce with it as much as 
possible, and living by itself, whether in this or the other 
world, without being chained to the body.* 

All that is true, Socrates. 

Well! as to what we call death, is not that the dis- 
engagement and separation of the body from the soul ? 
Most certainly. 

Are not the true philosophers the only men that seek 
after this disengagement? and is not that separation and 
deliverance their whole business ? 

So I think, Socrates. 

Is it not a ridiculous fancy, that a man that has lived in 
the expectation of death, and during his whole life has 
been preparing to die, upon his arrival at the point of 
desired death, should think to retire, and be afraid of it ? 
Would not that be a very scandalous apostacy? 

How should it be otherwise? 

It is certain then, Simmias, that death is so far from 
being terrible to true philosophers, that their whole busi- 
ness is to die ; which may be easily inferred thus : if 
they slight and contemn their body, and passionately desire 
to enjoy their soul by itself, is it not a ridiculous way of 

* The obstacles raised in the pursuit of wisdom, inspired the true 
philosophers with such an aversion to the body, that they pleased 
themselves with the fancy that after death they should be rid of it 
for ever. They knew no better : and though they had some idea of 
the resurrection, yet they were absolutely ignorant that the body 
will be likewise purged and scorified, that this corruptible body 
would put on incorruptibility, and the mortal part be invested with 
immortality. 



OF THE IMMORTAL I X"5f OF THE SOUL. 



183 



belying- themselves, to be afraid and troubled when 
Death comes? And is it not a piece of extravagance to 
decline going to that place, where those who get to it, 
hope to obtain the good things they have wished for all 
their lives? For they desired wisdom, and a deliverance 
from the body, as being their burden, and the object of 
their hatred and contempt. Do not many, upon the loss 
of their wives, children, or friends, willingly cut the 
thread of life, and convey themselves into the other world, 
merely upon the hope of meeting there, and conversing 
with the persons they love? * And shall a true lover of 
wisdom, and one that firmly hopes to attain the perfec- 
tion of it in the other world, be startled by death, and 
unwilling to go to the place that will furnish him with 
what his soul loves ? Doubtless, my dear Simmias, if he 
be a true philosopher, he will go with a great deal of plea- 
sure ; as being persuaded that there is no place in the 
regions below that cannot furnish him with that pure wis- 
dom that he is in quest of. Now, if things stand thus, 
would it not be a piece of extravagance in such a man to 
fear death ? 

To be sure, says Simmias, it would be so. 

And consequently, continues Socrates, when a man 
shrinks and retires at the point of death, it is a certain 
evidence that he loves not wisdom, but his own body, or 
honour, or riches, or perhaps all these together. 

It is so, Socrates. 

Then, Simmias, does not that we call fortitude belong in 
a peculiar manner to philosophers ? xAnd does not temper- 
ance, or that sort of wisdom that consists in controlling 
our desires, and living soberly and modestly, suit admira- 
bly well with those who contemn their bodies and live phi- 
losophically? 

That is certain, Socrates. 

Were you to inspect the fortitude and temperance of 
other men, you would find them very ridiculous. 

* The greater part, though scarce convinced of the immortality 
of the soul, used to kill themselves upon the loss of what they loved, 
hoping to retrieve it in the ether world : and is it not reasonable that 
the true philosophers, who are fully convinced of that truth, and 
fully persuaded that true wisdom is to be enjoyed in another woild, 
should give death a welcome reception ? 



184 



phedon; or, a dialogue 



How so, Socrates ? 

You know, says he, all other men look upon death as 
the greatest affliction. 

That is true, replies Simmias. 

When those you call stout-hearted suffer death with 
some courage, they do it only for fear of some greater evil. 
That I grant. 

And by consequence, all men, excepting the philosophers, 
are only stout and valiant through fear. And is it not 
ridiculous to believe a man to be brave and valiant, that is 
only influenced by fear and timorousness ? 

You are in the right, Socrates. 

Is not the case the same with your temperate persons ? 
It is intemperance alone that makes them such. Though 
at first view this may seem impossible, yet it is no more than 
what daily experience proves. For such persons disclaim one 
pleasure, only for fear of being robbed of other pleasures 
that they covet, and which have an ascendant over them. 
They will cry out to you as long as you will, that intempe- 
rance consists in being ruled and governed by our 
passions ; but at the same time that they give you this fine 
definition, it is only their subjection to some predominant 
pleasures, that makes them discard others. Now this is 
what I just said, that they are only temperate through 
intemperance. 

That is clear, Socrates. 

Let us not be imposed upon, my dear Simmias : the 
straight road to virtue does not he in shifting pleasures for 
pleasures, fears for fears, or one melancholy thought for 
another, and imitating those who change a large piece of 
money for many small ones. Wisdom is the only true 
and unalloyed coin, for which all others must be given in 
exchange. With that piece of money we purchase for- 
titude, temperance, justice. In a word, that virtue is al- 
ways true which accompanies wisdom without any de- 
pendance upon pleasure, grief, fear, or any other passion. 
Whereas all other virtues stript of wisdom, which run 
upon a perpetual change, are only shadows of virtue. 
True virtue is really and in effect a purgation from all 
these sorts of passion. Temperance, justice, fortitude, and 
prudence or wisdom itself, are not exchanged for passions, 
but cleanse us of them. And it is pretty evident, that those 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 185 

who instituted the purifications, called by us Teletes, i. e. 
Perfect Expiations, were persons of no contemptible 
rank, men of great genius,* who in the first ages meant 
by such riddles to give us to know that whoever enters 
the other world without being initiated and purified, shall 
be hurled headlong into the vast abyss ; and that whoever 
arrives there after due purgation and expiation, shall be 
lodged in the apartment of the Gods.f For, as the dis- 
pensers of those expiations say, " There are many who bear 
the Thyrsus, J but few that are possessed by the spirit of 
God." Now those who are thus possessed, as I take it, 
are the true philosophers. I have tried all means to be 
listed in that number, and have made it the business of my 
whole life to compass that end. If it please God I hope 
shortly to know that my efforts have not been ineffectual, 
and that success has crowned my endeavours. This, my 
dear Simmias, and my dear Cebes, is the apology with 
which I offer to justify my not being troubled or afflicted 
for parting with you, and quitting my governors in this 
life ; hoping to find good friends and rulers there, as well 
as here. This the vulgar cannot digest. However, I shall 
be satisfied if my defences take better with you than they 
did with my judges. 

Socrates having thus spoke, Cebes took up the discourse 
to this purpose. Socrates, I subscribe to the truth of all 
you have said. There is only one thing that men look upon 
as incredible, viz. what you advanced of the soul. For 
almost everybody fancies, that when the soul parts from 
the body, it dies with it and is no more ; that in the very 
minute of parting, it vanishes like a vapour or smoke, 
which flies off, and disperses, and has no existence. § If 

* Such as Orpheus, Musaeus, &c. 

t There is a passage to this purpose in the second book of his 
Republic: they say, that by virtue of these purifications and sacri- 
fices, we are delivered from the torments of hell ; but if we neglect 
them, we shall be liable to all the horrors of the same. 

t The Thyrsus was a spear wrapt in vines or ivy, carried by t! e 
followers of Bacchus. 

§ This was the imagination of those who denied the immortality 
of the soul. The author of the Book of Wisdom has set them in their 
true colours. " Our life," says he, t( is but a breath; after death it 
vanishes like a vapour, and passes like a cloud, or a mist dispersed by 

R 2 



186 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



it subsisted by itself, were gathered and retired into it- 
self, and freed from all the above-mentioned evils ; there 
were a fair and promising prospect. But, that the soul 
does really live after the death of a man, that it is sensible, 
that it acts and thinks; that, I say, needs solid proofs to 
make it go down. 

You say right, Cebes, replies Socrates ; but how shall 
we manage this affair ? Shall we in this interview ex- 
amine whether that is probable or not ? 

I shall be glad, says Cebes, to hear your thoughts upon 
the matter. 

At least, says Socrates, I cannot think that any man, 
hearing us, though he were a comedian,* would upbraid 
me with raillery, and charge me with not speaking of such 
things as concern us very much. If you have a mind that 
we should trace this affair to the bottom, my opinion is, 
that we should proceed in the following method, in order 
to know whether the souls of the dead have a being in the 
other world or not. 

It is a very ancient opinion, f that souls quitting this 
world repair to the infernal regions, and return after that 
to live in this world. If it be so, that men return to life 
after death, it follows necessarily, that during that in- 
terval, their souls are lodged in the lower regions : for if 
they had not a being, they could not return to this world. 
And this will be a sufficient proof of what we affirm, if 
we be convinced that the living spring from the dead ; J if 
otherwise, then we must look out for other proofs. 

the rays of the sun." Then he tells us, that those who entertain 
themselves with such language, " were not acquainted with the se- 
crets of God, for God created man incorruptible, after his own 
image, and the hope of the righteous is full of immortality." Wow 
this is just Socrates's doctrine. 

* A satirical touch upon Aristophanes, who, in his Comedy of the 
Clouds had charged Socrates with amusing himself only with trifles. 

t The first argument is grounded on the opinion of the Metempsy- 
chosis ; which Socrates only makes use of to shew that it supposed 
the future existence of souls as a certain truth. 

$ Since all things take rise from their contraries, life cannot 
swerve from the common rule. Now, if life come from death, then 
the soul has a being. This is a certain truth, but can only be made 
out by the resurrection. Wherefore, St. Paul tells the opposers of 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



187 



That is certain, says Cebes. 

But to assure ourselves of this truth, replies Socrates, 
it is not sufficient to examine the point upon the com- 
parison with men ; but likewise upon that with other 
animals, plants, and whatever has a vegetable principle. 
By that means, we shall be convinced that all things are 
born after the same manner ; that is, whatever has a con- 
trary, owes its first rise to its contrary. For instance, 
handsome is the contrary to ugly, and just to unjust. 
And the same is the case of an infinite number of other 
things. Now, let us see if it be absolutely necessary that 
whatever has a contrary, should spring from that contrary. 
As when a thing becomes bigger, of necessity it must for- 
merly have been lesser, before it acquired that magnitude. 
And when it dwindles into a lesser form, it must needs 
have been greater before its diminution. In like manner, 
the strongest arises from the weakest, and the swiftest 
from the slowest. 

That is a plain truth, says Cebes. 

And pray, continues Socrates, when a thing becomes 
worse, was it not formerly better ? and when it grows 
just, is it not because it was formerly unjust ? 

Yes, surely, Socrates. 

Then it is sufficiently proved, that every thing is gene- 
rated by its contrary. 
Sufficiently, Socrates. 

But, is not there always a certain medium between these 
two contraries ? There are two births, or two proces- 
sions, one of this from that, and another of that from this. 
The medium between a greater and a lesser thing, is in- 
crease and diminution.* The same is the case of what we 
call mixing, separating, heating, cooling, and all other 
things in infinitum. For though it sometimes falls out, 

that truth, " Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened 
except it die." — 1 Cor. xv. 36. Socrates goes upon the same prin- 
ciple, but it is only the Christian religion that can explain it. Plato 
and Socrates had some idea of the resurrection ; but they spoiled 
it by miugling it with the gross doctrine of Pythagoras. 

* Between two contraries there is always a medium which we 
may call the point of their generation. 



188 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



that we have not terms to express those changes and 
mediums, yet experience shews, that by an absolute ne- 
cessity, things take rise from one another, and pass reci- 
procally from one to another through a medium. 
There is no doubt of that. 

And, continues Socrates, has not life likewise its con- 
trary, as awaking has to sleeping ? 
Without doubt, says Cebes. 
What is that contrary ? 
Death. 

Since these two things are contrary, do not they take 
rise one from the other ? And between these two, are 
there not two generations, or two processions ? 

Why not ? 

But, says Socrates, I am about to tell you how the now- 
mentioned combination stands, and to shew you the 
original and progress of each of these two things which 
make up the compound. Pray tell me how awaking and 
sleeping are related ? Does not sleep beget watchfulness, 
and watchfulness sleep ? And is not the generation of 
sleep, the falling asleep ; and that of watching, the 
awakening ? 

All very clear. 

Now, pray view the combination of life and death. Is 
not death the contrary of life ? 
Yes. 

And does not one breed the other ? 
Yes. 

What is it that life breeds ? 
Death. 

What is it that death breeds ? 
It must certainly be life. 

Then, says Socrates, all living things, and men, are bred 
from death. 

So I think, says Cebes. 

And by consequence, continues Socrates, our souls are 
lodged in the infernal world after our death. 
The consequence seems just. 

But of these two generations, the one, viz. death, is very 
palpable ; it discovers itself to the eye, and is touched by 
the hand. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THK SOUL. 189 



Most certainly. 

Shall not we then attribute to death the virtue of pro- 
ducing its contrary, as well as to life ? Or, shall we say, 
that nature is lame and maimed on that score ? 

There is an absolute necessity, replies Cebes, of ascribing 
to death the generation of its contrary. 

What is that contrary ? 

Reviving, or returning to life. 

If there is such a thing as returning to life, it is nothing 
else but the birth of the dead returning to life. And thus 
we agree, that the living are as much the product of the 
dead, as the dead are of the living. Which is an incon- 
testable proof, that the souls of the dead must remain in 
some place or other, from whence they return to life. 

That, as I take it, says Cebes, is a necessary consequence 
from the principles we have agreed on. 

zVnd as I take it, Cebes, these principles are well 
grounded : consider them yourself. If all these con- 
traries had not their productions and generations in their 
turns, which make a circle ; and if there were nothing 
but one birth, and one direct production from one to the 
other contrary, without the return of the last contrary to 
the first that produced it ; were it not so, all things would 
terminate in the same figure, and be affected in the same 
manner, and at last cease to be born.* 

How do you say, Socrates ? 

There is no difficulty in conceiving what I now say. 
If there were nothing but sleep, and if sleep did not pro- 
duce watching, it is plain that every thing would be an 
emblem of the fable of Endymion,^ and nothing would be 
seen anywhere, because the same thing must happen to 
them that happened to Endymion, viz. they must always 
sleep. If every thing were mingled, without any subse- 
quent separation, we should quickly see Anaxagoras's 
doctrine fulfilled, and all things jumbled together. % At 
the same rate, my dear Cebes, if all living things died, and 

* If death did not give rise to life, as life does to death, all 
things would quickly be at an end. 

t Whom the moon lulled eternally to sleep, according to the fable. 

t That is to say, all things would quickly tumble into their primi- 
tive chaos. 



190 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



being dead, continued such without reviving, would not 
all things unavoidably come to an end at last, insomuch 
that there would not be a living thing left in being ? For, 
if living things did not arise from dead ones, when the 
living ones die ; of necessity all things must at last be 
swallowed up by death, and entirely annihilated.* 

It is necessarily so, replies Cebes ; all that you have 
said seems to be incontestable. 

As I take it, Cebes, there is no objection made against 
these truths, neither are we mistaken in. receiving them : 
for it is certain there is a return to life ; it is certain that 
the living rise out of the dead; that the souls departed 
have a being, and upon their return to life, the good 
souls are in a better, and the bad ones in a worse con- 
dition. 

What you now advance, says Cebes, interrupting 
Socrates, is only a necessary consequence of another prin- 
ciple, f that I have often heard you lay down, viz. That all 
our acquired knowledge is only remembrance. For, if 
that principle be true, we must necessarily have learnt at 
another time what we call to mind in this. Now that is 
impossible, unless our soul had a being before it became 
invested with this human form. So that this same prin- 
ciple concludes the immortality of the soul. 

But, Cebes, says Simmias, interrupting him, what de- 
monstration have we of that principle ? Pray refresh my 
memory with it, for at present it is out of my head. 

There is a very pretty demonstration for it, replies 
Cebes. All men being duly interrogated, find out all 
things of themselves ; which they could never do with- 
out knowledge and right reason. Put them unawares 
upon the figures of geometry, and other things of that 
nature, they presently perceive that it is, as it is said. 

Simmias, says Socrates, if you will not rely upon this 

* I have corrected this passage, by reading yevoiro ; for with- 
out fir) it was not sense. 

f Socrates made use of that principle, as being: established to his 
hand, and a necessary consequence of the creation of souls before 
the body. But he did not teach it for a certainty, as we shall see 
of Menon. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 191 



experience, pray try whether the same method ^vill not 
bring you over to our sentiments. Do you find great 
difficulty in believing that learning is only remembering. 

I do not find very much, replies Simmias, but I would 
gladly understand that remembrance you speak of. By 
what Cebes has said, I begin to believe it ; but that will 
not hinder me from hearing with pleasure the arguments 
you shall offer. 

I argue thus, replies Socrates : We all agree, that in 
order to remember, a man must have known before, what 
he then calls to mind. 

Most certainly. 

And let us likewise agree upon this, that knowledge 
coming in a certain manner is remembrance. I say, in a 
certain manner ; for instance, when a man by seeing, 
hearing, or perceiving a thing by any of the senses, knows 
what it is that thus strikes the senses ; and at the same 
time imagines to himself another thing, independent of 
that knowledge, by virtue of a quite different knowledge ; 
do not we justly say, that the man remembers the thing 
that comes thus into his mind ? * 

How do you say, replies Sim mi as ? 

I say, replies Socrates, for example, that we know 
a man by one sort of knowledge, and a harp by another. 

That is certain, quoth Simmias. 

Well then, continues Socrates, do not you know what 
happens to lovers, when they see the harp, dress, or 
any other thing that their friends or mistresses formerly 
made use of? As I said but now. Upon seeing and 
knowing the harp, they form in their thoughts the image 
of the person to whom the harp belongs. This is re- 
membrance. Thus it often falls out, that one seeing 
Simmias, thinks of Cebes. f I could cite a thousand other 
instances. This then is remembrance, especially when 
the things called to mind are such as had been forgot 
through length of time, or being out of sight. 

That is very certain, quoth Simmias. 

* Socrates's proofs only conclude a remembrance of things once 
known, and afterwards forgot in this life; not of things learnt in 
the other world. 

f By reason of their intimacy, which occasioned their being 
always together. 



192 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



But, continues Socrates, upon seeing the picture of a 
horse or a harp, may not one call to mind the man ? And 
upon seeing the picture of Simmias, may not one think 
of Cebes ? 

Sure enough, says Simmias. 

Much more, continues Socrates, upon seeing the picture 
of Simmias, will he call to mind Simmias himself ? 
Yes, with ease. 

From all these instances we infer, that remembrance is 
occasioned sometimes by things that are like the thing 
remembered, and sometimes by things that are unlike. 
But when one remembers a thing by virtue of a likeness, 
does it not necessarily come to pass, that the mind at first 
view discovers whether the picture does resemble the 
thing designed, lamely or perfectly ? 

It must needs be so, replies Simmias. 

Then pray mind whether your thoughts of what I am 
about to say, agree with mine. Is not there somethimg 
that we call equality ? * I do not speak of the equality 
between one tree and another, one stone and another, and 
several other things that are alike: I speak of the ab- 
stracted equality of things. Shall we call that something 
or nothing ? 

Surely, we should call it something ; but that will only 
come to pass when we mean to speak philosophically, and 
of marvellous things. 

But then do we know this equality ? 

Without doubt. 

From whence do we derive that knowledge ? Is it not 
from the things we mentioned just now ?f It is upon see- 
ing equal trees, equal stones, that we form the idea of that 
equality, which is not either the trees or the stones, but 
something abstracted fiom all subjects. Do not you find 

* He speaks of an intelligible, not a sensible equality. 

f Socrates is wrong in thinking to prove that the knowledge of 
intelligible qualities was acquired in the other world. ; such know- 
ledge is rather the effect of the light with which God illuminates the 
soul, or primitive impressions that are not quite defaced by sin : it is 
the remainder of the knowledge we have lost, and of the per- 
fection we have forfeited. So that if the other life be taken in 
Socrates's sense, the proposition is false : if in ours, for the state of 
the soul before sin, it is true. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. \93 

it such ? Pray take notice. The stones and the trees are 
always the same, and yet do not they sometimes appear 
unequal ? 
They do. 

What ! Do equal things appear unequal ? Or, does 
equality take up the form of inequality ? 
By no means, Socrates. 

Then equality, and the thing which is equal, are two 
different things. 
Most certainly. 

But after all, these equal things, which are different 
from equality, furnish us with the idea and knowledge of 
that abstracted equality. 

That is true, replies Simmias. 

The case is the same, whether this equality bear a re- 
semblance to the things that occasioned its idea, or not. 
Most certainly. 

When, upon seeing one thing, you call to mind another, 
whether it be like it or not ; still it is remembrance. 
Without doubt. 

But what shall we say to this, continues Socrates; when 
we behold trees or other things that are equal, are they 
equal according to the equality of which we have the idea 
or not ? 

Very far from it. 

Then we agree upon this: when a man sees a thing 
before him, and thinks it would be equal to another thing, 
but at the same time is far from being so perfectly equal, 
as the equality of which he has the idea ; then I say, 
he who thinks thus, must necessarily have known before- 
hand this intellectual being which the thing resembles, 
but imperfectly. 

There is an absolute necessity for that. 

And is not the case the same, when we compare things 
equal with the equality ? 

Surely, Socrates. 

Then of necessity we must have known that equality 
before the time, in which we first saw the equal things, 
and thereupon thought, that they all tended to be equal as 
equality itself, but could not reach it. 

That is certain. 

s 



194 



PHEDON; or, a dialogue 



But we likewise agree upon this, that the thought can 
be derived from nothing else hut one of our senses, from 
seeing, touching, or feeling one way or another: and the 
same conclusion will hold of all beings, whether intellec- 
tual or sensible. 

All things will equally conclude the same. 

Then, it is from the senses themselves that we derive 
this thought ; that all the objects of our senses have a 
tendency towards this intellectual equality, but come short 
of it: is it not so ? 

Yes, without donbt, Socrates. 

In effect, Simmias, before we began to see, feel, or use 
our senses, we must have had the knowledge of the intel- 
lectual equality ; else we could not be able to compare 
it with the sensible things, and perceive that they have 
all the tendency towards it, but fall short of its perfec- 
tion.* 

That is a necessary consequence from the premises. 
But is it not certain, that immediately after our birth, 
we saw, we heard, and made use of our other senses ? 
Very true. 

Then it follows, that before that time we had the know- 
ledge of that equality ? 

Without doubt. And by consequence we were pos- 
sessed of it before we were born. 

So I think. 

If we possessed it before we were born, then we knew 
things before we were born ; and immediately after our 
birth knew not only what is equal, what great, what 
small, but all other things of that nature. For what we 
now advance of equality, is equally applicable to goodness, 
justice, sanctity, and, in a word, to all other things that 
have a real existence. So that of necessity we must 

* One might have answered, that we had not that knowledge 
before we were born, but received it afterwards by the gradual 
communication of light from God into the soul. But as the soul 
was created full of light and perfection, so this truth was known to 
the Pagans, and upon that account, Socrates's friends were obliged 
to assent to what he said. If by the first life of the soul, we under- 
stand the very instant of creation, or the state of the soul before the 
fall, the proposition is true. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



19.5 



have known all these things before we came into this 
world.* 

That is certain. 

And being possessed of that knowledge, if we did not 
forget every day, we should not only be born with it, 
but retain it all our life-time. For to know, is only to 
preserve the knowledge we have received, and not to lose 
it. And to forget, is to lose the knowledge we enjoyed 
before. 

That is certain, Socrates. 

Xow if, after having possessed that knowledge before we 
were born, and having lost it since, we come to retrieve it 
by the ministry of our senses, which we call learning, shall 
we not justly entitle it remembrance ? 

With a great deal of reason, Socrates. 

For we have agreed upon this ; t that it is very possible 
that a man seeing, hearing, or perceiving one thing, by 
any of his senses, should frame to himself the imagination 
of another thing that he had forgotten ; to which the thing 
perceived by the senses has some relation, whether it re- 
sembles the other, or not. So that one of two things must 
necessarily follow: either we were born with that know- 
ledge, and preserved it all along; or else retrieved it after- 
wards by way of remembrance. Which of these two do 
you prefer, Simmias ? are we born with that know- 
ledge; or do we call it to mind after having had it, and 
forgot it? 

Indeed, Socrates, I know not which. 

But mind what I am about to say to you, and then let 
us see which you will choose. A man that knows any 
thing, can he give a reason of his knowledge or not ? 

Doubtless he can, Socrates. 

And you think all men can give a reason for what we 
have been speaking of? 

* The Greek exposition is very remarkable ; it turns thus, 
u Tilings upon which we have put this stamp, that it is so.'' That 
is, to distinguish things that have a true existence, from sensible 
things that have no true existence. 

t It was agreed before, that upon seeing one thing, we call to 
mind another unseen : as upon seeing a lute we think of a mistress; 
upon seeing equal trees, we call to mind equality. 



196 



phedon; or, a dialogue 



I wish they could, replies Sinmiias : but I am afraid that 
to-morrow we shall have none here that is capable of 
doing it. 

Then you think all men have not this knowledge ? 
Certainly not. 

Do they call to mind then, the things they have 
known ?* 
That may be. 

At what time did our souls learn that knowledge? It 
cannot be since we were men. 
No surely. 

Then it must be some time before that ? 

Yes, without doubt. And by consequence, Simmias, 
our souls had a being before that time; that is to say, be- 
fore they were invested with a human form, while they 
were without the body, they thought, they knew, and un- 
derstood. 

Unless Socrates, you will allow, that we learned it in 
the minute of our birth ; there is no other time left. 

Be it so, my dear Simmias, but at what other time did 
we lose it ?f For we did not bring it into the world with 
us, as we concluded but now. Did we lose it in the same 
minute that we obtained it ? Or, can you assign any other 
time? 

No, Socrates ; I did not perceive that what I said was 
to no purpose. 

Then, Simmias, this must be a standing truth : J that if 
the objects of our daily conversation, have a real existence; 

* If they are not born with that knowledge, then they must 
have forgot it, and recovered it again by way of remembrance. A 
false consequence. 

t All the heathen philosophers are at a loss to find out the time 
of this forgetting. They were sensible that God created the soul 
full of light and understanding, but did not perceive that the first 
man lost that light and knowledge by his rebellion ; and that if he 
had continued innocent, he had transmitted to us those valuable qua- 
lities together with his innocence ; as well as that now he is fallen, 
he has transmitted to us obscurity and sin. 

t Socrates means to prove, that as goodness, justice, and all those 
intelligible beings, which are the patterns of the sensible and real 
beings, subsist intelligibly in God from all eternity; so our soul exists 
by itself, and has an eternal being in the idea of God; and from 
this idea it derives all its knowledge. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 197 

I mean, if justice, goodness, and all that essence with 
which we compare the objects of our senses, and which 
having an existence before us, proves to be of the same 
nature with our own essence, and is the standard by which 
we measure ail things ; I say, if all these things have a 
real existence, our soul is likewise entitled to exist- 
ence, and that before we were born ; and if these 
things have no being, then all our discourses are useless. 
Is it not a standing truth, and withal a just and necessary 
consequence, that the existence of our souls before our 
birth, stands or falls with that of those things ? 

That consequence, replies Simmias, seems to me to 
be equally just and wonderful : And the result of the 
whole discourse affords something very glorious and 
desirable on our behalf, since it concludes, that before we 
were born, our souls had an existence, as well as that 
intelligible essence you mentioned but now. For my part, 
I think there is nothing more evident, and more sensi- 
ble, than the existence of all these things, goodness, 
justice, &c. and you have sufficiently proved it. 

Now for Cebes, says Socrates; for Cebes must like- 
wise be convinced. 

I believe, replies Simmias, though he is not easily 
led by arguments, that he will admit your proof to 
be very convincing. In the mean time though I am 
sufficiently convinced that our souls had a being before 
we were born, I have not yet heard sufficient proof 
for its continuing after our death. For that popular 
opinion, which Cebes mentioned, still remains in all 
its force, viz. That after the death of man, the soul 
disperses and ceases to be. And indeed I cannot see 
why the soul should not be born, or proceed from 
some part or other, and have a being before it animates 
the body in this life, and when it removes from the body, 
cease to be, and make its exit as well as the body. 

You speak well, Simmias, says Cebes; to my mind, So- 
crates has only made good one half of what he proposed. 
It is true, he has proved that the soul has a being 
1 before the body; but to complete his demonstration, he 
should have shown that our soul has an existence after 
death, as well as before this life. 

But I have demonstrated it to vou both, replies Socra- 
s 2 



198 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



tes; and you will be sensible of it, if yon join this last 
proof -with what yon acknowledged before, viz. That the 
living take rise from the dead.* For if it is true, that our 
soul was in being before we were born, then of necessity, 
when it comes to life, it proceeds, so to speak, from the 
bosom of death : and why should it not lie under the same 
necessity of being after death, since it must return to life ? 
Thus what you speak of is made good. But I perceive both 
of you desire to sound this matter to the bottom ; and are 
apprehensive, like children, that when the soul departs the 
body, the winds run away with it, and disperse it, especi- 
ally when a man dies in an open country in a place exposed 
to the winds. 

Whereupon, Cebes, smiliDg, replied, Pray then, So- 
crates, try to convince us, discuss our fears, as if we 
feared nothing : though indeed there be some among us, 
who He under those childish apprehensions. Persuade us 
then not to fear death, as being a vain phantom. 

As for that, says Socrates, you must employ spells and 
exorcisms every day, till you be cured. 

But pray, Socrates, where shall we meet with that excel- 
lent conjurer, since you are going to leave us ? 

Greece is large enough, replies Socrates, and well stored 
with learned men. Besides, there are a great many bar- 
barous nations, f which you must scour in order to find out 
the conjurer, without sparing either labour or charges : 
for you cannot employ your money in a better cause. You 
must likewise look for one among yourselves ; for it is 
possible there may be none found more able to perform 
those enchantments. 

We shall obey your orders, Socrates, in looking out for 
one: but in the mean while if you please, let us resume 
our former discourse. 

With all my heart, Cebes. 

Well said, Socrates. 

* Though our soul has no being before our coming into the world, 
yet it continues after death, since it must return to life by the 
resurrection, and the living take rise from the dead. The defeat of 
death is the triumph of life. This proof of the necessary rise of the 
living from the dead, is an admirable support for our Christian hope. 

t It was from those nations whom he calls barbarous, that he de- 
rived the rays of that truth, that the soul is immortal. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



199 



* The first question we ought to ask ourselves, says So- 
crates, is. What sort of things they are that are apt to be 
dissipated ; what things are liable to that accident, and 
what part of those things ? Then we must enquire into 
the nature of soul, and form our fears or our hopes accord- 
ingly. 

That is very true. 

Is it not certain, that only compounded things, or such 
as are of a compoundable nature, admit of being dissipated 
at the same rate that they were compounded I If there 
are any uncompounded beings, they alone are free from 
this accident, and naturally incapable of dissipation. 

That I think is very clear, replies Cebes. 

Is it not very likely, that things which are always the 
same, and in the same condition, are not at all compounded? 

I am of your mi rid, Socrates. 

Let us betake ourselves to the things we were speaking 
of but now, f the existence whereof is never contested 
or doubted ; are these always the same, or do they some- 
times change ? Equality, beauty, goodness, and every 
singular thing, i. e. the essence itself ; do these receive the 
least alteration, or are they so pure and simple, that 
they continue always the same, without undergoing the 
least change ? 

Of necessity, replies Cebes, they must continue still the 
same, without alteration. 

And ail these fine things, says Socrates, such as men, 
horses, habits, moveables, and a great many other tilings of 
the same nature, are they entirely opposite to the former, 
that they never continue in the same condition, either with 
reference to themselves, or to others; but are subject to 
perpetual alterations ? 

They never continue in the same condition, replies 
Cebes. 

Now these are the things that are visible, touchable, or 

* Hitherto Socrates has endeavoured to make good the existence 
of souls before their bodies, as being a point of the received theology. 
And forasmuch as the principle is false, it was impossible for him 
to give better proof, since error does not admit of demonstration. 
But now he is about to make good the future existence and immor- 
tality of the soul, which he does by solid unshaken arguments. 

t Intellectual beings. 



200 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



perceptible by some other sense; whereas the former, which 
continue unchangeable, can only be reached by thought, 
as being immaterial and invisible. 
That is true, Socrates. 

If you please, continues Socrates, I will instance two 
things, one visible, the other invisible ; one still the same, 
and the other betraying continual alterations. 

With all my heart, says Cebes. 

Let us see then. Are we not compounded of a body 
and a soul ? or is there any other ingredient in our com- 
position ? 

Surely not. 

Which of the two kinds of things does our body most 
resemble ? 

All men own that it is most conformable to the visible. 
And pray, my dear Cebes, is our soul visible or invisible ? 
It is invisible, at least to men. 

But when we speak of visible or invisible things, we 
mean with reference to men, without minding any other 
nature. Once more then; is the soul visible or not 1 

It is not visible. 

Then it is immaterial and invisible ? 
Yes. 

And by consequence the soul is more conformable than 
the body to the invisible kind of things; and the body suits 
better with the visible ? 

This is absolutely necessary. 

When the soul makes use of the body in considering 
any thing, by seeing, hearing, or any other sense (it be- 
ing the sole function of the body, to consider things by 
the senses) should not we then say that the body draws 
the soul upon mutable things ? In this condition it strays, 
frets, staggers, and is giddy like a man in drink, by rea- 
son of its being engaged in matter. Whereas when it 
pursues things by itself, without calling in the body, it 
betakes itself to what is pure, immortal, immutable; and, 
as being of the same nature, dwells constantly upon it while 
it is master of itself, then its errors are at an end, and it 
is always the same, as being united to that which never 
changes; and this passion of the soul is what we call wisdom. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



201 



That is admirably well spoken, Socrates, and a very great 
truth. 

After all then, which sort of things does the soul seern 
to resemble most ? 

To my mind, Socrates, there is no man so stupid and 
obstinate, as not to be obliged to acknowledge by your 
method of arguing, that the soul bears a greater resem- 
blance and conformity to the immutable Being, than to 
that which is always upon the change. 

And as for the body ? 

It bears a greater resemblance to the other. 

Let us try yet another way. During the conjunction of 
body and soul, nature orders the one to obey and be a 
slave, and the other to command and hold the empire. 
Which of these two characters is most suitable to the Di- 
vine Being; and which to that that is mortal ? Are you 
not sensible, that the divine principle is only capable of 
commanding and ruling ; and what is mortal is only 
worthy of obedience and slavery ? 

Surely I am. 

Which of these two then agrees best with the soul ? 

It is evident, Socrates, that our soul resembles what is 
divine, and our body that which is mortal. 

You see then, my dear Cebes, the necessary result of all 
is, that our soul bears a strict resemblance to what is di- 
vine, immortal, intellectual, simple, indissolvable ; and is 
always the same, and always like it : and that our body 
does perfectly resemble what is human, mortal, sensible, 
compounded, dissolvable, always changing, and never like 
itself. Can any thing be alleged to destroy that conse- 
quence, or to make out the contrary ? 

Certainly not, Socrates. 

Does it not then suit with the body to be quickly dis- 
solved, and with the soul to be always indissolvable, or 
something very near it ? 

That is an evident truth. 

Accordingly you see every day,* when a man dies, 

* Socrates is about to shew the ridiculousness of the opinion of 
the soul's dissipation after death. What ! shall the body, a com- 
pounded being, subsist a while after death, and the soul a simple 
being, be immediately dissipated ? After what has been said, the 
ridiculousness of the supposition is very plain. 



202 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



his visible body, that continues exposed to our view, and 
which, we call the corpse ; that alone admits of dissolution, 
alteration, and dissipation; this I say, does not immedi- 
ately undergo any of these accidents, but continues for 
some time in its entire form, or in its bloom, if I may so 
speak, especially in this season.* Bodies embalmed 
after the manner of those in Egypt, remain entire for 
an infinity of years : and even in those that corrupt, 
there are always some parts, such as the bones, nerves, or 
the like, that continue in a manner immortal. Is not this 
true ? 

Very true. 

Now as for the soul, which is an invisible being, that 
goes to a place like itself, marvellous, pure, and invisible, 
in the infernal world; and returns to a God full of good- 
ness and wisdom; which I hope will soon be the fate of 
my soul, if it please God. Shall a soul of this nature, 
and created with all these advantages, be dissipated and 
annihilated, as soon as it parts from the body, as most men 
believe ? No such thing, my dear Simmias, and my dear 
Cebes. I will tell you what will rather come to pass, and 
what we ought to believe steadily. If the soul retains its 
purity without any mixture of filth from the body, as hav- 
ing entertained no voluntary correspondence with it; but, 
on the contrary, having always avoided it, and collected 
itself within itself in continual meditations; that is, in stu- 
dying the true philosophy, and effectually learning to die; 
for philosophy is a preparation for death : I say, if the 

* This passage is enough to stun the critics, who make a great 
bustle to find out the precise time of Socrates's death ; and after 
straining hard in demonstrating the Attic Calendar, and computing 
its months, assure us he died in the month of July. Here, to their 
great misfortune, Socrates himself says he died in the season in 
which corpses keep best. The month of July is not entitled to that 
character, especially in Greece. So that they must make a new 
computation. But how came this passage to escape their view ? 
The reason is plain : Most of them do not read the originals. When 
they look for any thing, they content themselves with running over a 
translation. Now, the translation of this passage is very faulty. 
Neither Marcilius Ficinus, nor de Cerres understood it. They took 
(opa for the good condition and entireness of the parts ; whereas it 
signifies the season. Upon which mistake the one renders iv toiclvtk) 
wpa, cum quadam moderatione ; and the other, corpore perbelle 
affect o. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



203 



soul depart in this condition, it repairs to a being like 
itself, a being that is divine, immortal, and full of wisdom; 
in which it enjoys an inexpressible felicity, as being freed 
from its errors, its ignorance, its fears, its passions, that 
tyrannized over it, and all the other evils pertaining to 
human nature : and as it is said of those who have been 
initiated into holy mysteries, it truly passes a whole course 
of eternity with the Gods.* Ought not this to be the mat- 
ter of our belief ? 
Surely, Socrates. 

But if the soul depart full of uncleanness and impurity, 
as having been all along mingled with the body, always 
employed in its service, always possessed by the love 
of it, and charmed by its pleasures and lusts ; inso- 
much that it believed there was nothing real or true be- 
yond what is corporeal ; what may be seen, touched, 
drank, or eaten, or what is the object of carnal pleasure ; 
that it hated, dreaded and avoided what the eyes of the 
body could not descry, and all that is intellectual, and can 
only be enjoyed by philosophy : Do you think, I say, that 
a soul in this condition can depart pure and simple from 
the body ? 

No, Socrates, that is impossible. 

On the contrary, it departs stained with corporeal pol- 
lution, which was rendered natural to it, by its continual 
commerce and too intimate union with the body at a time 
when it was its constant companion, and still was employed 
in serving and gratifying it. 

Most certainly. 

This pollution, my dear Cebes, is a gross, heavy, earthy, 
and visible mass; and the soul loaded with such a weight, 
is dragged into that visible place, not only by its weight, 
but by its own dread of the light and the invisible 
place and as we commonly say, wanders in cemeteries, f, 

* The initiation into mysteries was only a shadow of what was to 
be completed in the other world. 

t Socrates speaks here of the impure spirits that dwelt among: the 
tombs in church-yards, such as are mentioned in the Gospel, Matt. 
viii. 28. Mark v. 2. Luke viii. 26, which wandered night and 
day round the tombs and upon the mountains. He alleges that they 
were corrupt and polluted souls, which bore the pollution they had 
contracted by sin, in plunging themselves too deep in matter. 



204 PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 

among the tombs, where dark phantoms and apparitions 
are often seen; like to those souls that did not depart 
the body in purity or simplicity, but polluted with that 
earthly and visible matter which makes them degenerate 
into a visible form. 

That is very likely, Socrates. 

Yes, without doubt, Cebes; and it is also likely that it is 
not the good, but the bad souls, that are forced to wander 
in those places of impurity ; where they suffer for their 
former ill life, and still continue, till through the love 
they have to this corporeal mass, which always follows 
them, they again enter a new body, and in all pro- 
bability plunge themselves into the same manners and 
passions, as were the occupation of their first life.* 

How do you say, Socrates ? 

I say, Cebes, for instance, that those who made their 
belly their God, and loved nothing but indolence and im- 
purity without any shame, and without any reserve ; 
these enter into the bodies of asses, or such like crea- 
tures, f Do not you think this very probable ? 

Yes, surely. 

And those souls who loved only injustice, tyranny, and 
rapine, are employed to animate the bodies of wolves, 
hawks, and falcons. Where else should souls of that 
sort go ? 

No where else, Socrates. 

The case of all the rest is much the same. They go to 
animate the bodies of beasts of different species, according 
as they resemble their former dispositions. 

According to these principles, it cannot be otherwise. 

* An error derived from Pythagoras's Metempsychosis, taken in 
a gross sense. 

t I shall only remark, that by Socrates's way of expressing 
himself, one would believe that this imaginary transmigration 
of souls was grounded upon those impure spirits that entered 
into men and beasts : we are not to doubt, but that in those times 
of obscurity, under the real empire of the devil, there were a great 
many people possessed in that manner; and that was a sufficient 
ground for forming the idea of the transmigration of souls; that 
being most apt to frighten them. They fancied, that these im- 
pure spirits took to themselves bodies in the sepulchres where they 
dwelt. 



OF THE IM MORTALITY OF THE SOUL . 



205 



The happiest of all these men, are those who have made 
a profession of popular and civil virtues, such as tempe- 
rance and justice ; to which they have brought them- 
selves only by habit and exercise, without any assistance 
from philosophy and the mind. 

How can they be so happy then ? 

It is probable that after their death, their souls are joined 
to the bodies of politic and meek animals, such as bees > 
wasps, and ants; or else return to human bodies, and be- 
come temperate and wise men. But as for approaching to 
the nature of God, that is not at all allowed to those who 
did not live philosophically, and whose souls did not de-> 
part with all their purity. That great privilege is reserved 
for the lovers of true wisdom. And it is upon this consi- 
deration, my dear Simmias, and my dear Cebes, that 
the true philosophers renounce the desires of the body, 
and keep themselves apart, from its lusts; they are not 
apprehensive of the ruin of their families, or of poverty, as 
the vulgar are, and those who are wedded to their riches : 
they fear neither ignominy nor reproach, as those do who 
court only dignities and honours. In a word, they re- 
nounce all things, and even themselves.* 

It would not be suitable for them to do otherwise, replied 
Cebes. 

No, continues Socrates. In like manner, all those who 
value their souls, and do not live for the body, depart 
from all such lusts, and follow a different course from those 
insensible creatures that do not know where they go. 
They are persuaded that they ought not to do any thing 
contrary to philosophy, or harbour any thing that destroys 
its purification, and retards their liberty ; and accord- 
ingly resign themselves to its conduct, and follow it whi- 
thersoever it leads them. 

How do you say, Socrates ? 

I will explain it to you. The philosophers finding their 
soul tied and chained to the body, and by that means ob- 
liged to employ the body in the pursuit of objects which it 
cannot follow alone, so that it still floats in an abyss of 

* A fine character of true philosophers. They fear neither po- 
verty, ignominy, nor death : they renounce themselves, and all 
things beside. 

T 



206 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



ignorance; are very sensible that the force of this bond lies 
in its own desires, insomuch that the prisoner itself helps 
to lock up the chains. They are sensible that philosophy 
coming to seize upon the soul in this condition, gently in- 
structs and comforts it, and endeavours to disengage it, by 
giving it to know, that the eye of the body is full of illu- 
sion and deceit, as well as all its other senses : by advertising 
it not to use the body further than necessity requires ; and 
advising it to recollect and shut itself up within itself, to 
receive no disposition but its own, after it has examined 
within itself the intrinsic nature of every thing, and stript 
it of the covering that conceals it from our eyes, and to 
continue fully persuaded, that whatever is tried by all its 
other senses, being different from the former discovery, is 
certainly false. Now, whatever is tried by the corporeal' 
senses, is visible and sensible. And what it views by itself 
without the ministry of the body, is invisible and intelligi- 
ble. So that the soul of a true philosopher, being con- 
vinced that it should not oppose its own liberty ; disclaims 
as far as possible, the pleasures, lusts, fears, and sorrows 
of the body : for it knows that when one has enjoyed 
many pleasures, or given way to extreme grief or timorous- 
ness, or abandoned himself to his desires ; he not only is 
afflicted by the sensible evils known to all the world, such 
as loss of health or estate, but is doomed to the last and 
greatest of evils ; an evil that is so much the more danger- 
ous and terrible,because it is not obvious to our senses. 
What evil is that, Socrates ? 

It is this ; that the soul being forced to rejoice or be 
afflicted upon any occasion, is persuaded that Avhat causes 
its pleasure or grief, is a real and true thing, though at 
the same time it is not : and such is the nature of all sen- 
sible and visible things that are able to occasion joy or 
grief. 

That is certain, Socrates. 

Are not these passions then the chief instruments that 
particularly imprison the soul within the body ? 
How is that, Socrates ! 

Every pleasure, every melancholy thought, being armed 
with a strong and keen point, nails the soul to the body 
with such force, that it becomes material or corporeal, and 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 207 

fancies there are no real and true objects, but such as the 
body accounts so : for as it entertains the same opinions, 
and pursues the same pleasures with the body, so it is 
obliged to the same actions and habits. For which reason 
it cannot descend in purity to the lower world, but is 
daubed over with the pollution of the body it left, and 
quickly re-enters another body, where it takes root as if it 
had been sown, and puts a period to all commerce with 
the pure, simple, and divine essence. 
That is very true, Socrates. 

These are the motives that oblige philosophers to make 
it their business to acquire temperance and fortitude, and 
not such motives as the vulgar think of. Are not you of 
my opinion, Cebes ? 

Certainly I am. 

All true philosophers will still be of that mind. Their 
soul will never entertain such a thought, as that philosophy 
should only disengage it, to the end that when it is freed, 
it should follow its pleasures, and give way to its fears and 
sorrows ; that it should put on its chains again, and 
always want to begin anew, like Penelope's web. On the 
contrary, it continues in a perfect tranquillity and freedom 
from passion, and always follows reason for its guide; 
it incessantly contemplates what is true, divine, immutable, 
and above opinion, being nourished by this pure truth : it 
is convinced that it ought to follow the same course of life 
while it is united to the body ; and hopes that after death, 
surrendered to the immortal being as its source, it will 
be freed from all the afflictions of human nature. After 
such a life, and upon such principles, my dear Simmias 
and Cebes, what should the soul be afraid of? Shall 
it fear, that upon its departure from the body, the winds 
will dissipate it, and run away with it, and that annihila- 
tion will be its fate ? 

Socrates having thus spoken, stopped for a while, 
seeming to be altogether intent upon what he had 
said. Most of us were in the same condition : and Cebes 
and Simmias had a short conference together. At last, 
Socrates perceiving their conference, asked them what 
they were speaking of ? Do you think, says he, that my 
arguments are lame ? I think indeed there is room left 



208 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



for a great many doubts and objections, if any will take 
tlie pains to mention them. If you are speaking of any 
thing else, I have nothing to say. But though you have 
no doubts, pray, tell me freely whether you think of any 
better demonstration, and make me a companion in your 
enquiry, if you think I can assist you to compass your end. 

I will tell you, says Simmias, the naked truth. Some- 
time since, Cebes and I had harassing doubts ; and 
being desirous to have them resolved, pushed on one 
another to propose them to you. But we were both afraid 
to importune you, and suggest disagreeable questions in 
the unseasonable hour of your present misfortune. 

0 ! my dear Simmias,* replies Socrates smiling, cer- 
tainly 1 should have great difficulty in persuading other 
men that I find no misfortune in my present circumstances, 
since I cannot get you to believe it. You think that upon 
the score of foreknowledge and divining, 1 am infinitely 
inferior to the swans.f When they perceive death ap- 
proaching, they sing more merrily than before, because of 
the joy they have in going to the God they serve. J But 
men, through fear of death, reproach the swans, in saying 
that they lament their death, and tune their grief in sor- 
rowful notes. They forget to make this reflection, that 
no bird sings when it is hungry, cold, or sad ; nay, not 
the nightingale, the swallow, or the lapwing, whose music 
they say is a true lamentation, and the effect of grief. 
But, after all, these birds do not sing from grief : and 
far less the swans, which by reason of their belonging to 
Apollo, are diviners, and sing more joyfully on the day of 
their death than before, as foreseeing the good that awaits 
them in the other world. And for my part, I think I serve 
Apollo as well as they ; I am consecrated to that God as 

* Socrates is angry with his friends for reckoning his present 
condition as an unfortunate one. 

t He could not take a better method to shew that he reckoned 
no misfortune in death, than this of rallying upon the Pythago- 
rean and vulgar religion. 

$ As if their fowls were admitted to the mansions of the blessed. 
Socrates ridicules that opinion. We shall see afterwards, that they 
admitted beasts to the land of the just; of which they had a very 
confused idea. But that is to another purpose. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



209 



well as they ; I have received from our common master 
the art of divining as well as they; and I am as little con- 
cerned at making my exit as they are. So that you may 
freely propose what doubts you please, and put questions 
to me as long as the eleven magistrates suffer me to 
live. 

You say well, Socrates, replies Simmias ; since it is so, 
I will propose my doubts first, and then Cebes shall give 
in his. I agree with you, that it is impossible, or at least 
very difficult to know the truth in this life ; and that it is 
the property of a lazy and a dull head, not to weigh ex- 
actly what is proposed to his consideration, or to supersede 
the examination before he has made all his efforts, and is 
obliged to give over by insurmountable difficulties. For one 
of these two things must be done : we must either learn the 
truth from others, or find it out ourselves. If both ways fail 
us, amidst all human reasons, we must fix upon the 
strongest and most forcible, and trust to that as to a ship, 
while we pass through this stormy sea, and endeavour to 
avoid its tempests, until we find, out one more firm and 
sure, such as a promise or revelation, upon which we 
may happily accomplish the voyage of this life, as in 
a vessel that fears no danger.* I shall therefore not be 
ashamed to put questions to you, now that you allow 
me ; and avoid the reproach I might one day cast upon 
myself, of not having told you my thoughts upon this 
occasion. When I survey what you spoke to me and to 
Cebes, I must own I do not think your proofs sufficient. 

Perhaps you have reason, my dear Simmias, but where 
does their insufficiency appear ? 

In this ; that the same things might be asserted of the 

* This is a very remarkable passage. Here the philosophers ac- 
knowledge that we should endeavour to make out the immortality of 
the soul by our own reason; and that as this reason is very weuk 
and narrow, so it will be always assaulted by doubt and uncer- 
tainty ; that nothing but a divine promise or revelation can disperse 
the clouds of ignorance and infidelity. Now the Christian religion 
is the only thing that furnishes us, not only with divine promises 
and revelations, but likewise with the accomplishment of them by 
the resurrection of Christ, tcho became the first-fruits of them tJiat 
slept, 1 Cor. xv. 20. And thus according to the philosophers them- 
selves, the church is the only vessel that fears no dangers, in which 
we may happily accomplish the voyage of this life. 

T 2 



210 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



harmony of a harp. For one may reasonably say, that the 
harmony of a harp well stringed and well tuned, is invisi- 
ble, immaterial, excellent and divine ; and that the instru- 
ment and its strings are the body, the compounded earthy 
and mortal matter. Now suppose the instrument were cut 
in pieces, or its strings broken, might not one with equal 
reason affirm, that this harmony remains after the break- 
ing of the harp, and has no end ? For, since it is evident 
that the harp remains after the strings are broken, or that 
the strings, which are likewise mortal, continue after the 
harp is broken or dismounted ; it must needs be impossi- 
ble, one might say, that this immortal and divine harmony 
should perish before that which is mortal and earthy; 
nay, it is necessary that this harmony should continue to 
be without the least damage, when the body of the harp and 
its strings are gone to nothing. For, without doubt, So- 
crates, you are sensible that we hold the soul to be some- 
thing that resembles a harmony ; and that as our body is 
a being composed of hot and cold, dry and moist, so our 
soul is nothing else but the harmony resulting from the 
just proportion of these mixed qualities. Now, if our 
soul is only a sort of harmony, it is evident, that when 
our body is over-stretched, or unbended by diseases, or 
any other disorder, of necessity our soul with all its di- 
vinity, must come to an end, as well as the other har- 
monies which consist in sounds, or are the effect of instru- 
ments ; and that the remains of every body continue for a 
considerable time, till they be burnt or mouldered away, 
This, you see, Socrates, might be alleged in opposition to 
your arguments, that if the soul be only a mixture of the 
qualities of our body, it perishes first in what we call 
death. 

Then Socrates looked upon us all, one after another, as 
he did often, and began to smile. Simmias speaks with 
reason, says he, his question is well put ; and if any one 
of you has greater dexterity in answering his objections 
than I have, why do you not do it ? For he seems tho- 
roughly to understand both my arguments, and the excep* 
tions they are liable to. But before we answer him, it is 
proper to hear what Cebes has to object, that while he 
speaks, we may have time to think upon what we are to 
say; and after we have heard them both, that we may 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 211 

yield if their reasons are uniform and valid ; and if other- 
wise, may stand by our principles to the utmost. Tell us 
then, Cebes 3 what it is that hinders you from agreeing 
with what I have laid down, 

I will tell you, says Cebes : Your demonstration seems 
to be lame and imperfect ; it is faulty upon the same head 
that we took notice of before. That the soul has a being 
before its entrance into the body, is admirably well said ; 
and, I think, sufficiently proved : but I can never be 
persuaded that it has likewise an existence after death. 
At the same time, I cannot subscribe to Simmias's allega- 
tion, that the soul is neither stronger nor more durable 
than the body ; for it appears to me to be infinitely more 
excellent. But why then, it may be objected, do you re- 
fuse to believe it ? Since you see with your eyes, that 
when a man is dead, his weakest part remains still : is it 
not therefore absolutely necessary that the more durable 
part should last longest ? Pray take notice, if I an- 
swer this objection right. For to let you into my mean- 
ing, I must use resemblance or comparison, as well as 
Simmias. Your allegation, to my mind, is just the same, 
as if upon the death of a tailor, one should say, this 
tailor is not dead, he has a being still somewhere or other, 
and for proof of that, here are the garments he wore, 
which he made for himself, so that he is still in being. If 
any one should not be convinced by this proof, he would 
not fail to ask him, whether the man or the garments he 
wears is the most durable ? To which, of necessity, he 
must answer, that the man is : And upon this your phi- 
losopher would pretend to demonstrate, that since the less 
durable possession of the tailor is still in being, by a 
stronger consequence, he himself is so too. Now, 
the parallel is not just ; pray hear what I have to answer 
to it. 

It is evident at first view, that the objection is ridiculous. 
For the tailor, having used several garments died only 
before the last, which he had not time to wear ; and though 
this last survived the man, if I may so speak, yet we cannot 
say the man is weaker, or less durable than his garments. 
This simile is near enough, for as the manis, to his garments, 
so is the soul, to the body ; and whoever applies to the soul 



212 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



and body what is said of the man and his garments, will 
speak to the purpose. For he will make the soul more 
durable, and the body a weaker being, and less able to 
hold out for a long time. He will add, that every soul 
wears several bodies, especially if it lives several years. 
For the body wastes w r hile the man is yet alive, and the 
soul still forms to itself a new habit of body, out of the 
former that decays ; but when the last comes to die, it 
has then its last habit on, and dies before its consumption : 
and when the soul is dead, the body quickly betrays the 
weakness of its nature, since it soon corrupts and moul- 
ders away. So that we cannot put such confidence 
in your demonstration, as to hold it for a certain truth, 
that our souls continue in being after death. For 
supposing it were granted, that our soul has not only a 
being antecedent to our birth, but that, for any thing we 
knowj the souls of some continue in being after death ; 
and that it is very possible they may return again to the 
world, and be born again, so to speak, several times, and 
die at last; for the strength and advantage of the soul 
beyond the body, consists in this, that it can undergo 
several births, and wear several bodies one after another, 
as a man does his clothing: supposing, I say, that all 
this were granted, still it cannot be denied, but that in all 
those repeated births, it decays and wastes, and at last 
comes to an end in one of these deaths. However, it is im- 
possible for any man to discern in which of the deaths it 
is totally sunk : since things stand thus, whoever does not 
fear death, must be senseless ; unless he can demonstrate 
that the soul is immortal and incorruptible. For other- 
wise every dying man must of necessity fear for his soul, 
lest the body it is quitting should be its last, and it perish 
without any hope of return. 

Having heard them propose these objections, we were 
very much troubled, as we afterwards told them, that at a 
time when we were just convinced by Socrates' s arguments, 
they should come to perplex us with their objections, and 
throw us into a state of doubt and uncertainty, not only of 
all that had been said to us by Socrates, but likewise of 
what he might say afterwards ; for we might always be 
apt to believe, that either we were not proper judges of 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 213 



the points in debate, or else that his arguments were 
fallacious. 

Echec. Indeed, Pheclon, lean easily pardon your trouble 
upon that account. For I myself, while I heard you re- 
late the matter, was saying to myself, what shall we be- 
lieve hereafter, since Socrates' s arguments, which seemed 
so valid and convincing, are become doubtful and uncer- 
tain ? In effect, that objection of Simmias's, that the 
soul is only a harmony, moves me wonderfully. It awakes 
in me the memory of my having been formerly of the 
same opinion. So that my belief is unhinged; and I 
want new proofs to convince me, that the soul does 
not die with the body. Wherefore, pray tell me, Phe- 
clon, in the name of God, how Socrates came off ; whether 
he seemed to be as much piqued as yourselves ; or, if 
he maintained his opinion with his wonted temper, and, 
in fine, whether his demonstration gave you full satisfac- 
tion, or seemed chargeable with imperfections. Pray tell 
me the whole story, without omitting the minutest cir- 
cumstance. 

Plied. I protest to you, Echecrates, I admired Socrates 
all my life-time, and upon this occasion admired him more 
than ever. That such a man as he, had his answers in 
readiness, is no great surprise ; but my greatest admi- 
ration was, to see in the first place with what calmness, 
patience, and good humour, he received these objections; 
and then how dexterously he perceived the impression 
they had made upon us, and set about to remove them. 
He rallied us like men put to flight after a defeat, and 
inspired us with fresh ardour to turn our heads, and 
renew the charge. 

Echec. How was that ? 

Plied. I am about to tell you. As I sat at his right- 
hand upon a little stool lower than his, he drew his hand 
<Dver my head, and taking hold of my hair that hung 
down upon my shoulders, as he was wont to do for his 
diversion; Phedon, says he, will not you cut this very 
pretty hair to-morrow ? It is probable I shall, said I. 
If you take my advice, said he, you will not stay so long. 
How do you mean ? said I. Both you and I, continued 
he, ought to cut our hair, if this our opinion be so far dead 



214 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



that we cannot raise it again.* Were I in your place, and 
defeated, I would make a vow, as the men of Argos did, f 
never to wear my hair till I conquered these arguments of 
Simmias and Cehes. But said I, Socrates, you have forgot- 
ten the old proverb, that Hercules himself is not able to en- 
gage two. And why, says he, do not you call on me to 
assist you as your Iolas, while it is yet time ? And ac- 
cordingly 1 do call on you, said I, not as Hercules did on 
Iolas, but as Iolas did Hercules. It is no matter for that, 
says he, it is all one. Above all, let us be cautious to 
avoid one great fault. What fault ? said I. That, said 
he, of being reason-haters ; for such there are, as well as 
man-haters. The former is the greatest evil in the world, 
and arises from the same source with the hatred of man. 
For the latter comes from one man's plighting his faith 
for another man, without any precaution or enquiry, 
whom he always took for a true-hearted, solid, and trusty 
man, but finds him at last to be false and faithless : 
And thus being cheated in several such instances, by those 
whom he looked upon as his best friends, and at last weary 
of being so often betrayed, he equally hates all men, and is 
convinced there is not one that is not wicked and per- 
fidious. Are not you sensible, that this man-hating is 
formed at this rate, and by degrees ? Certainly, said I. Is 
it not a great scandal then, continued he, and a superlative 
crime, to converse with men, without being acquainted 
with the art of trying and knowing them ? For if 
one were acquainted with this art, he would see how 
things stand, and would find that the good and the wicked 
are very rare; but those in the middle region swarm in 
infinite numbers. 

How do you say, Socrates ? 

I say, Phedon, the case of the good and bad is much 

* It was a custom among the Greeks to cut off their hair at the 
death of their friends, and throw it into the tombs. The belief of 
the immortality of the soul is so good a friend, that we ought to cut 
off our hair when it dies. 

t The Argives being routed by the Spartans, with whom they 
waged war for seizing the city of Thy re, cut their hair, and swore 
solemnly never to suffer it to grow, till they had retaken the town 
that belonged to them : which happened in the 57th Olympiad, 
when Croesus was besieged at Sardis. Herodot. lib. i. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 2] 5 

the same with that of very large or very little men. Do 
not you see that there is nothing more uncommon than a 
very big or a very little man ? The case is the same with 
reference to dogs, horses, and all other things ; and may 
likewise be applied to swiftness and slowness, handsome- 
ness and deformity, whiteness and blackness. Are not 
you convinced, that in all these matters the two extremes 
are very uncommon, whilst the medium is very common? 

I perceive it very plainly, Socrates. 

If a match were proposed for wickedness, would not 
there be very few that could pretend to the first rank ? 

That is very likely, Socrates. 

It is certainly so, replies he. But upon this score, the 
case of reason, and men, is not exactly the same. I will 
follow you step by step. The only resemblance of the two 
lies in this, that when a man unskilled in the art of exami- 
nation, entertains a reason as true, and afterwards finds it 
to be false, whether it be so in itself or not ; and when the 
same thing happens to him often, as indeed it does to 
those who amuse themselves by disputing with the sophists 
that contradict every thing ;* he at last believes him- 
self to be extremely well skilled, and fancies he is the 
only man that has perceived there is nothing true or cer- 
tain, either in things or reasons; but that all is like Eury- 
pus, in a continual flux and reflux, and that nothing conti- 
nues so much as one moment in the same state. 

That is the truth, Socrates. 

Is it not then a very deplorable misfortune, my dear 
Phedon, that while there are true, certain, and very com- 
prehensible reasons, there should be men found, who after 
they have suffered them to pass, call them again in ques- 
tion, upon hearing these frivolous disputes, where some- 
times truth and sometimes falsehood come uppermost ; 
and instead of charging themselves with these doubts, or 
blaming their want of art, cast the blame at last upon the 
reasons themselves; and being of a sour temper, pass their 
life in hating and calumniating all reason, and by that 
means rob themselves both of truth and knowledge ? 

* Those who fancy that Socrates and Plato taught no positive 
truths, but reckoned every thing uncertain, may undeceive them- 
selves by reading this passage. 



216 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



That is certainly a most deplorable thing, said L 
AYe ought to be very cautious, continues he, that this 
misfortune be not our lot; and that we are not prepossessed 
by this thought, that there is nothing solid or true in all 
arguments whatever. We should rather be persuaded, 
that it is ourselves who are wanting in stability and truth; 
and use our utmost efforts to recover that solidity and 
justness of thought. This is a duty incumbent upon you, 
who have time yet to live ; and likewise upon me who am 
about to die.* And I am much afraid, that upon this oc- 
casion I have been so far from acting the part of a true 
philosopher, that I have rather behaved myself like a 
disputant overborne with prejudice; like all those ignorant 
dogmatists, who in their disputes mind not the percep- 
tion of truth so much, as to draw their hearers over to their 
opinions. The only difference between them and me, is, 
that the convincing my audience of the truth of what I 
advance is not my only aim : I shall be infinitely glad if that 
come to pass; but my chief concern is to persuade myself 
of the truth of these things. 

If my propositions prove true, it ' is well done to believe 
them ;f and if after my death they be found false, I 
still reap the advantage in this life, of having been less 
affected by the evils which commonly accompany it. But I 
shall not remain long under this ignorance. If I were to 
do so, I should consider it a great misfortune: But hap- 
pily, it will quickly be dispelled. Fortified by these 
thoughts, my dear Simmias and Cebes, I proceed to 
answer your objections ; and if you take my advice, you 
will rely less upon the authority of Socrates, than that of 
truth. If what I am about to advance appear true, em- 
brace it ; otherwise, attack it with all your force. Thus I 

* The belief of the immortality of the soul is useful, "both for 
living and for dying well. 

t If these are true, I am a great gainer with little trouble ; if 
false, I lose nothing : On the contrary, I have gained a great deal : 
For besides the hope that supported me through my afflictions, infir- 
mities and weaknesses, I have been faithful, honest, humble, thank- 
ful, charitable, sincere and true, and have only quitted false and 
contagious pleasures in exchange for real and solid ones. Mr. Pascal 
in his Art. 7, has enlarged upon this truth, and backed it with a 
demonstration of infinite force. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 21? 

shall neither deceive myself, nor impose upon you by the 
influence of zeal and good-will, nor quit you like a wasp 
that leaves its sting in the wound it has made. 

To begin then, pray see if I remember rightly what was 
objected. Simmias, as I take it rejects our belief, only 
because he fears our souls, notwithstanding their being 
divine and more excellent, will die before our bodies, as 
being only a sort of harmony. And Cebes, if I mistake 
not, granted that the soul is more durable than the body, 
but thinks it possible that the soul, after having used seve- 
ral bodies, may die when it quits the last body, and that 
this death of the soul is a true death. Are not these the 
two points I am to examine, my dear Simmias and Cebes ? 

\Yhen they had all agreed that the objections were justly 
summed up, he continued thus: Do you absolutely reject 
all that I have said, or do you acknowledge part of it to be 
true ? They answered, that they did not reject the whole. 
What then, says he, is your opinion of that which I told 
you ? viz. That learning is only remembrance, and 
that by a necessary consequence the soul must have an 
existence before its conjunction with the body. 

As for me, replies Cebes, I perceived the evidence of it 
at first view; and do not know any principles of more cer- 
tainty and truth. I am of the same mind, says Simmias, 
and should think it very strange, if ever I changed my 
opinion. 

But, my dear Theban, continues Socrates, you must 
needs change it, if you retain your opinion that harmony is 
compounded, and that the soul is only a sort of harmony, 
arising from the due union of the equalities of the body : for 
it is presumed you would not believe yourself, if you said 
that harmony has a being before those things of which it 
is composed. 

Surelv, replies Simmias, I would not believe mvself if I 
did. 

Do you not then see, continues Socrates, that you are 
not consistent with yourself, when you say that the soul 
had a being before it came to animate the body, and at the 
same time that it is compounded of things that had not 
then an existence ? Do not you compare the soul to a 
harmony ? And is it not evident that the harp, the strings, 
and the very discordant sounds, exist before the harmony, 

u 



218 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



which is an effect that results from all these things, and 
perishes sooner than they ? Does this latter part of your 
discourse correspond with the first ? 
Not at all, replies Simmias. 

And yet, continues Socrates, if ever there should be 
agreement in a discourse, it ought to be such when harmony 
is its subject. 

That is right, says Simmias. 

But yours is not so, continues Socrates. Let us hear 
then which of these two opinions you side with. Whether 
learning is only remembrance, or the soul is a sort of har- 
mony ? 

I side with the first, replies Simmias. 

And that opinion I hare explained to you, without 
having recourse to any demonstrations full of similes 
and examples, which are rather colours of the truth, and 
therefore please the people best ; * but as for me, I am of 
opinion, that all discourses proving their point by similes, 
are full of vanity, and apt to seduce and deceive, unless 
one be very cautious, whether it relate to geometry, or any 
other science : whereas the discourse I made, proving 
that knowledge is remembrance, is grounded upon a very 
creditable hypothesis; for I told you that the soul exists as 
well as its essence before it comes to animate the body. 
By essence I mean the principle from which it derives its 
being, which has no other name, but that which is. 
And this proof I take to be good and sufficient. 

* Marsilius Ficinus and De Serves have strangely misunder- 
stood this passage, not only in making Simmias speak all this : but 
what is more considerable, in putting a favourable construction on 
those words, fxerd sIkotoq rivbt; § 7revpe7rEiag, which the one renders, 
" verisimilis tantum venustique exempli indicatione and the other, 
" ex verisimili quadam convenientia and in separating the words 
avsv ci7rodaL%e(ijg, whereas they are joined ; for Socrates says, " I made 
this discourse without having recourse to demon stratious crammed 
with similes and colours, that take so much with the people." In 
effect, Socrates did not so much as make use of one comparison in 
making good the opinion of remembrance : whereas Simmias had 
brought in the comparison of a harp to prove that the soul is a 
harmony. Now there is nothing misleads the ignorant more than 
similitudes, for the imagination is so seduced by the representation, 
that it blindly embraces all that presents itself to it. And by that 
means this opinion of Simmias did always meet with a favourable 
reception, and does to this day among the ignorant. This is a very 
important passage, and deserved a larger explication. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



219 



By that reason, says Simmias, I must not listen either 
to myself or others, who assert the soul to be a sort of 
harmony. 

In earnest, Simmias, replies Socrates, do you think that 
a harmony, or any other composure, can be any thing dif- 
ferent from the parts of which it is compounded I 

By no means, Socrates. 

Or, can it do or suffer, what those parts do not ? Sim- 
mias answered, It could not. Then, says Socrates, a har- 
mony does not precede, but follow the things it is com- 
posed of : and it cannot have sounds, motions, or any 
thing else contrary to its parts. 

Surely not, replies Simmias. What ! continues Socrates, 
is not all harmony only such in proportion to the concord 
of its parts 1 

I no not understand you, says Simmias. 

I mean, according as the parts have more or less of 
concord, the harmonv is more or less a harmony : is it 
not ? 

Yes, certainly. 

Can we say of the soul, after the same manner, that a 
small difference makes a soul to be more or less a soul I 
No, surely, Socrates ? 

How is it then, in the name of God ? Do not we say, 
for example, that such a soul endowed with understanding 
and virtue, is good ; and another filled with folly and mis- 
chief is wicked. Is not this right ? 

Yes, quoth Simmias. 

But those who hold the soul to be a harmony, what will 
they call these qualities of the soul, vice, and virtue ? 
^YiH they say, the one is harmony, and the other discord ? 
That a virtuous and good soul, being harmony in its na- 
ture, is entitled to another harmony ; and that a vicious 
and wicked soul wants that additional harmony ? 

I cannot be positive, replies Simmias; but indeed it is 
very probable that the patrons of that opinion may advance 
some such thing. 

But we concluded, that one soul is not more or less a 
soul than another; that is, that it is not more or less a 
harmony, than another harmony, 

I admit it, savs SUtw™^ 



220 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



And since it is not more or less a harmony, then it has 
not more or less concord. Is it not so ? 
Yes, surely, Socrates. 

And since it has not more or less of concord, can one 
have more harmony than another, or mast the harmony of 
them all he equal ? 

Doubtless it must he equal. 

Since one soul cannot be more or less a soul than ano- 
ther, by the same reason it cannot have more or less con- 
cord than another. 

That is true. 

Than it follows necessarily, that one soul cannot have 
either more harmony or discord than another. 
I agree to it. 

And by consequence, since the soul is of that nature, it 
cannot have more virtue or vice than another; if so be that 
vice is discord, and virtue harmony. ? 

That is true, Simmias. 

Or, would not right reason rather say that vice could 
find no place in the soul, if so be the soul is harmony; for 
harmony, continuing in its perfect nature, is not capable 
of discord ? 

There is no question of that. 

In like manner, the soul while perfectly a soul, is not 
capable of vice. 

According to the principles we agreed upon, I cannot 
see how it should. 

From the same principles it will follow, that the souls 
of all animals are equally good, since they are equally 
souls. 

So I think, says Simmias. 

But do you think that agreeable to reason, if the hypo- 
thesis of the soul's harmony be true ? 
No, Socrates. 

Then I ask you, Simmias, if of all the parts of man, the 
soul is not best entitled to command, especially when it 
is prudent and wise ? 

There is no other part that can pretend to it. 

Does it command by giving way to the passions of the 
body, or by resisting them ? As for example, when the 
body is seized with thirst in the cold fit of a fever, does 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



221 



not the soul restrain it from drinking ? or, when it is hun- 
gry, does it not restrain it from eating ? As well as in a 
thousand other instances, which manifestly shew, that the 
soul curbs the passions of the body. Is it not so ? 
Without doubt. 

But we agreed before that the soul being a sort of har- 
mony, can never be contrary to the sound of those 
things which raise, or lower, or move it: nor can have other 
passions different from those of its parts; and that it is 
necessarily obliged to follow, being incapable of guiding 
them. 

It is certain we agreed upon that, says Simmias : how 
could we avoid it I 

But, says Socrates, is it not evident that the conduct of 
the soul is the reverse of this ! That it governs and 
rules those very things which are alleged for ingredients in 
its composition; that it continually thwarts and attacks 
them; that it is every way their mistress, punishing and 
repressing some by the harder measures of school-exercises, 
and pain ; and treating others more gently, as con- 
tenting itself with threatening or insulting over its lusts. 
In a word, we see the soul speaks to the body as some- 
thing of a different nature from itself; which Homer was 
sensible of, when, in his Odyssies, he tells us, that (s Ulysses, 
beating his breast, rebuked his heart, and said to it, Sup- 
port thyself, thou hast stood out against harder and more 
difficult things than these," 

Do you think the poet spoke that under the apprehen- 
sion of the soul's being a harmony to be managed and 
conducted by the body ! Or, do you not rather believe 
that he knew it was the soul's part to command, and that 
it is of a more divine nature than harmony ? 

Yes, Socrates ; I am persuaded Homer knew that 
truth.* 

And by consequence, my dear Simmias, continues So- 
crates, there is not the least colour of reason for the soul's 
being a harmony : should we assert it to be such, we 

* Homer knew that the nature of the soul is different from that of 
the body, as manifestly appears from the beginning of the 19th book 
of his Odyssey. 

u 2 



222 



PHEDON; OR, A DIALOGUE 



should contradict both Homer, that divine poet, and like- 
wise ourselves. Simmias yielded ; and Socrates proceeded 
thus : 

I think we have sufficiently tempered and moderated 
this Theban harmony,* so that it will do us no harm. 
But, Cebes, how shall we do to appease and disarm this 
Cadmus ? f How shall we hit on a discourse duly quali- 
fied with persuasive force ? 

If you will be at the pains, Socrates, you can easily find 
such an argument. The last you urged against the harmony 
of the soul moved me mightily, and indeed beyond my 
expectation ; for when Simmias proposed his doubts, I 
thought nothing short of a prodigy or miracle could solve 
them: and I was mightily surprised when I saw he could 
not stand the first attack. So that now it will be no sur- 
prise to me to see Cadmus undergo the same fate. 

My dear Cebes, replies Socrates, do not you speak too 
big upon the matter, lest envy should overturn all I have 
said, and render it useless and ineffectual. But that is in 
the hands of God. As for us, let us approach one another 
as Homer says, and try our strength and arms. What you 
want comes all to this point : you would have the immor- 
tality and incorruptibility of the soul demonstrated, to the 
end that a philosopher who dies bravely in the hopes of 
being infinitely more happy in the other world than in this, 
may not hope in vain. You say, the soul's being a durable 
and divine substance, existing before its joining with the 
body, does not conclude its immortality; and the only 
inference that it will bear, is, that it lasts a great while 
longer. The soul, say you, was in being many ages before 
us, during which it knew and did several things, but with- 
out immortality : for on the contrary, the first minute of 
its descent into the body, is the commencement of its death, 

* He calls Simmias's opinion a Theban harmony, alluding to the 
fable of Amphion, who by the harmony of his harp built the walls of 
Thebes. In like manner, Simmias, with his pretended harmony, 
proposed to construct the human being. 

t He calls Cebes another Cadmus, because as Cadmus by sowing 
the teeth of the dragon he had killed, fetched out of the bosom of the 
earth a race of fierce men that lived but one minute ; so Cebes, by 
the opinion of the mortality of the soul, a thing more poisonous than 
the teeth of a dragon, made men base and earthy, and left them but 
a short and miserable existence. 



OF THE TM MORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



223 



or, as it were, a gradually consuming disease; for it passes 
this life in anguish and trouble, and at last is quite swallowed 
up and annihilated by what we call Death. You add, that 
it is the same thing, whether it animates a body only once, 
or returns to it several times, since that does not alter the 
occasion of our fears, forasmuch as all wise men ought still 
to fear death, while they are uncertain of the immortality of 
their souls. This, I believe, is the sum of what you said; 
and I repeat it so often, on purpose that nothing may 
escape my view, and that you may have the opportunity of 
adding or impairing as you please. 

At present, says Cebes, I have nothing to alter; that is 
the sum of what I have yet said. 

Socrates was silent a while, as being drowned in 
profound meditation. At last, Cebes, says he, it is truly 
not a small matter that you demand ; for in order to a 
just satisfaction, there is a necessity of making a narrow 
enquiry into the cause of generation and corruption. If 
you please I will tell you what happened to me upon this 
very matter; and if what I say seem useful to you, you 
will be at liberty to make use of it to support your senti- 
ments. 

With all my heart, says Simmias. 

Pray give ear then, says Socrates : In my youth I had 
an insatiable desire to learn that science which is called 
Natural History ; for I thought it was something great 
and divine to know the causes of every thing, of their ge- 
neration, existence, and death. And I spared no pains, 
nor omitted any means for trying, in the first place, if a 
certain corruption of heat and cold will, as some pretend, 
give nourishment to animals ; if the blood makes the 
thought ; if air or fire, or the brain alone is the cause of 
our senses, of seeing, hearing, smelling, &c ; if memory 
and opinion take their rise from these senses, and if know- 
ledge be the result of memory and opinion.* Then I 
wanted to know the causes of their corruption, and ex- 
tended my curiosity both to the heavens and the cavities of 
the earth, and would fain have known the cause of all the 

* Socrates said he was ignorant of all these things, because he 
knew nothing but second causes. Now to know them justly, one 
ought to know God, and the virtue he displays in nature. 



224 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



phenomena we meet with. At last, after a great deal of trou- 
ble, I found myself strangely unqualified for such inquiries; 
and of this I am about to give you a sensible proof.* This 
fine study made me so blind in the things I knew more 
evidently before, according to my own and other persons' 
thoughts, that I quite forgot all that I had known upon 
several subjects. I thought it was evident to the whole 
world, that a man grows only by eating and drinking : 
for flesh being added to flesh, bones to bones, and all the 
other parts joined to their similar parts by nourishment, 
make a small bulk to swell and grow, so that a little man 
becomes large. This was my thought : Do you not think 
it was just ? 

Yes, surely, replied Cebes. 

Mind what follows, says Socrates. I thought likewise 
that I knew the reason why one man is taller than ano- 
ther, and one horse higher than another : and with re- 
ference to plainer and more sensible things, I thought, 
for instance, that ten was more than eight, because two 
was added to it; that two cubits were larger than one, 
because they contained one half more. 

And what are your present thoughts of those things, 
says Cebes ? 

f I am so far, replies Socrates, from thinking that I know 
the causes of all these things, that when one is added to 
one, I do not believe I can tell whether it is that very 
one to which the other is added that becomes two, or whe- 
ther the one added, and the one to which the addition was 
made, make two together ? For in their separate state, 
each of them was one, and not two ; and after their being 
placed one by the other, they became two. Neither can I 

* The utmost reach of physical investigation amounts to no more 
than an imperfect knowledge of second causes. Now these second 
causes do not lead us into the knowledge of the essence of things. 
A man is so far from improving his knowledge by them, that he 
must needs own his ignorance of the things he pretends to know. 
All philosophers at this day know, that nourishment by the means 
of heat is the cause of the growth of any animal. But they are 
all at a loss to know by what virtue it grows, or ceases to grow, and 
what are the limits of its growth. What misfortune is it for a man 
to plot and contrive all his life for the knowing of nothing ! 

t He afterwards gives the reason of these doubts. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



225 



tell how, upon the division of any thing, that w hich was 
formerly one becomes two, from the very moment of divi- 
sion ; for the cause is quite contrary to that which makes 
one and one become two : As in this; one and one became 
two by reason of their being placed near, and added the 
one to the other ; but in that ; one thing becomes two by 
reason of its division and separation. Far less do I pretend 
to know whence this one thing comes, and by this method, 
(i. e. by physical reasons) I cannot find out how the least 
thing takes rise or perishes, or how it exists. But without 
so much ceremony, I join another method of my own with 
it, for by this I can learn nothing : having one day heard 
somebody reading a book of Anaxagoras's, who said the 
divine intellect was the cause of all beings, and drew them 
up in their proper ranks and classes,* I was ravished with 
joy. I perceived there was nothing more certain than this 
principle : that intellect is the cause of all beings. For I 
justly thought that this intellect having methodized all 
things, and ranked them in their classes, f planted every 
thing in the place and condition that was best and most 
useful for it, in which it could best do and suffer whatever 
the supreme intelligence had allotted to it ; and I appre- 
hended that the result of this principle was, that the only 
thing a man ought to look for, either for himself or others, 
is this better and more useful thing : for having once found 
what is best and most useful, he will necessarily know 
what is worst; since there is but one knowledge for both. 

* Anaxagoras was the first that said the intellect or spirit of God 
arranged the parts of matter and put them in motion. And it was 
that principle that ushered in his physics. This fair exordium gave 
Socrates occasion to think that he would explain all the secrets of 
nature, by unfolding the divine virtue displayed upon it, and assign 
all the reasons why every thing was so and so. But that philoso- 
pher did not keep up to his first principle ; for he left the first 
cause, and insisted only on second causes, and by so doing frustrated 
the expectation of his readers. 

t Here Socrates recals us to the first truth, that God created all 
things good, and in their best state ; according to Moses, who says, 
" God saw all things that he had made, and behold they were very 
good." Now 7 in order to know why things are thus good, we must 
inquire into the nature of this original goodness, and survey the state 
they were created in : what a sorry thing is physics then, that knows 
nothing but second causes, or rather, that does not certainly know 
these second causes? 



226 



phedon; or, a dialogue 



Upon this score I was infinitely glad that I had found 
such a master as Anaxagoras, who I hoped would give a 
satisfactory account of the cause of all things; and would 
not only tell me, for instance, that the earth is broad or 
round, but likewise assign the necessary cause of its being 
so : who would point out to me what is best, and at the 
same time give me to understand why it was so. In like 
manner, if he affirmed the seat of the earth to be in the 
centre of the universe, I expected he would give me a rea- 
son why it was so : and after I should have received suffi- 
cient instruction from him, I designed not to admit of 
any other cause as a principle. 

I prepared some questions to be put to him concerning 
the sun, moon, and the stars, in order to know the reason 
of their motions, revolutions, and other accidents, and why 
that which each of them does is always the best : for I 
could not imagine, that after he had told me, that intellect 
arranged them, and drew them up in order, he could give 
me no other reason of that order than this, that it ivas best. 
And I flattered myself with hopes, that after he had as- 
signed both the general and particular cause, he would 
inform me wherein the particular good of every individual 
thing, as well as the common good of all things, consists. 
I would not have parted with these hopes for all the trea- 
sures of the world. 

So I bought his books with a great deal of impatience, 
and made it my business to peruse them as soon as possi- 
ble, in order to acquire a speedy knowledge of the good 
and evil of all things ; but I found myself frustrated in my 
mighty hopes : for as soon as I had made a small progress 
in the perusal, I found the author made no use of this in- 
tellect, and assigned no other cause of that fine order and 
disposition, than the air, whirlwinds, the waters, and other 
things equally absurd. 

His whole performance seemed to reach no farther, than 
if a man should say, that Socrates does all by intellect ; 
and after that proposing to give a reason for all my actions, 
should say, I am sttting upon my bed, for instance, to-day, 
because my body is composed of bones and nerves ; the 
bones being hard and solid, are separated by joints ; and 
the nerves* being able to bend and unbend themselves, 
* Under the notion of nerves he comprehends muscles. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL, 



227 



tie the bones to the flesh and the skin, which receives and 
includes both the one and the other ; that the bones being 
disengaged at the joints, the nerves, which bend and un- 
bend, enable nie to fold my legs as you see ; and that for- 
sooth is the reason that I sit in this posture. Or if a man 
pretending to assign the cause of my present conference 
with yon, should insist only upon second causes, the voice, 
air, hearing, and such other things, and should take no 
notice of the true cause, viz. that the Athenians thought 
fit to condemn me, and that by the same reason I thought 
it best to be here, and patiently await the execution of my 
sentence; for I can safely* swear that these nerves and 
bones should long ere now have been translated to Megara, 
or Bceotia, if that had been fitter for me, and if I had not 
been still persuaded that it was better to endure the 
punishment I am doomed to by my country, than to flee 
like a slave or a banished person. As I take it, it is highly 
ridiculous to assign such causes upon such an occasion, 
and to rest satisfied in them. 

If it be replied, that without bones and nerves, and such 
other things, I could not do what I mean to do ; the alle- 
gation is true. But it savours of the greatest absurdity to 
suppose that these bones or nerves should be the cause of 
actions, rather than the choice of what is best, for that were 
to sink the difference between the cause and the thing ; 
without which the cause could not be such. And yet the 
vulgar, who take things by hearsay, and see by other peo- 
ple's eyes, as if they walked in thick darkness, take the 
true cause of things to be of that nature. Pursuant to this 
notion, some surround the earth with a vortex that re- 
volves eternally, and suppose it to be fixed in the centre of 
the universe : f others conceive it to be a broad and large 
trough, which has the air for its base and foundation. And 

* In the Greek it runs, " For I swear by the doer." Lactantius 
checks him for this oath. Bat St. Augustin in Lib. IV. On true Re- 
ligion, justifies him ; as if Socrates meant to ghethe Athenians to 
know, that even a flog, being the workmanship of God, deserved 
more honour than all the idols they swore by. It may likewise be 
alleged that Socrates swore by a dog, a goose, &e. in order to accus- 
tom men to forbear taking the name of God so often in vain. 

t The former was the opinion of Anaxiraen.es, Anaxagoras, and 
Democritus. 



228 



PHEDON; OR, A DIALOGUE 



as for the power which orders and disposes every thing to 
its best advantage, that is left entirely out of their consi- 
deration. They fancy they know of a stronger and more 
immortal Atlas, one more capable of supporting all things.* 
And that great, good, and immortal tie, which is alone able 
to unite and comprehend all things, they take for a 
chimera. 

Now I am of their mind who would willingly list them- 
selves disciples to any that could tell this cause, let it be 
what it may. But since I could not compass the know- 
ledge of it, either by myself or others, I will, if you please, 
give you an account of a second trial I made in order to 
discover it. 

I am very desirous to hear ii, observes Cebes. 

After I had wearied myself in examining all things, I 
thought it my duty to avoid what happens to those who 
contemplate an eclipse of the sun ; for they lose the sight 
of it, unless they view its reflection in water or some 
other medium. A thought much like that occurred to me, 
and I feared I should lose my mental eyes, if I viewed 
objects with corporeal ones, or employed any of my senses 
in endeavouring to know them. I thought it best to have 
recourse to reason, and contemplate the truth of all things 
as reflected from it. It is possible the simile I use in ex- 
plaining myself is not exact ; for I myself cannot affirm, 
that he who beholds things in the glass of reason, sees 
them more by reflection and similitude than he who be- 
holds them in their operations. However, the way I pro- 
ceeded was this : From that time forward I grounded all 
upon the reason that seemed best, and took all for truth 
that I found conformable to it, whether in things or causes. 
And what was not conformable, I rejected, as being false. 
I will explain my meaning more distinctly ; for I fancy 
you do not yet comprehend me. 

Indeed, says Cebes, I do not clearly understand you. 

But, after all, says Socrates, I advance no new thing. 
This is no more than what I have said before, and par* 
ticularly in the foregoing discourse : for all that I aim 
at, is to demonstrate what sort of cause this is that I 

* This Atlas is their own judgment, overrun with obscurity and 
weakness. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



229 



so carefully sought after. I begin with its qualities, which 
are so much talked of, and which I take for the founda- 
tion. I say, then, there is something that is good, fine, 
just, and great, of itself. If you grant me this principle, 
I hope by it to demonstrate the cause, and make out the 
immortality of the soul. 

I grant it, says Cebes ; you cannot be too quick in per- 
fecting your demonstration. 

Mind what follows, and see if you agree to it as I under- 
stand it. If there is anything fine, besides fineness itself, 
it must be such by partaking of that first good ; and so of 
all the other qualities. Are you of this opinion ? 

I am. 

I protest, continues Socrates, I cannot well understand 
all the other learned causes that are commonly assigned. 
But if any man ask me what makes a thing fine, whether 
the liveliness of its colours, or the just proportion of its 
parts, and the like \ I waive all these plausible reasons, 
which serve only to confound, and, without ceremony or 
art, make answer, and perhaps too simply, that its fine- 
ness is only owing to the presence, or approach, or com- 
munication of the original fine Being, whatever be the way 
of that communication ; for I am not yet certain in what 
manner it is : I only know certainly that all these fine 
things are rendered such by the presence of this fine Being. 
While I stand by this principle, I suppose I cannot be 
deceived ; and am persuaded, that I may safely make 
answer to all questions whatever, that all fine things owe 
their fineness to the presence of this Being. Are not you 
of the same mind ? 

Yes, Socrates. 

Are not great and small things rendered such in like man- 
ner ? If one told you, that such a thing is larger than 
another by the head;* would not you think the expres- 
sion far from being exact ? and would not you make answer, 
that whatever is larger, is rendered such by magnitude 
itself, and what is smaller owes its littleness to littleness 
itself I For if you said, that such a thing is greater or 
smaller than another by the head, I fancy you would fear 

* Socrates does not condemn the received expressions, but means 
to shew that they do not reach the nature and essence of things. 

X 



PHBDON ; OK, A I) I A LOO UK 



being censured, for making both the greater and lesser 
thing to be such by the some cause ; and besides, for using 

Mich an expression as seems to imply, that the head, whieh 
ti a small part, makes Uie largeness of the greater, which, 
Ul effect, is an absurdity; for what can be more absurd 
than to say, that a small matter makes a thing Jarge ? 
Would not you fear such objections ? 
Yes, replies Cebes, smiling. 

IJy the same reason, would not yon hesitate to say, 
that ten is more than eight, and surpasses it hy two? 
And would not you rat hu' -ay, that ten are more than 
eight hy quantity X In like mariner* of two cubits; would 
you say, they are larger than one by magnitude* rather 
than hy the half? for f.tili the same cause of ohjection 
remain s. 

You nay well. 

But when one, is added to one, or a thing is divided 
into halves, would not you avoid saying, that in the former 
case addition makes one and one two ; and in the latter, divi- 
sion makes one thing hecorne two? And would not you pro- 
test that you know no other cause of the existence of things, 
than the participation of the essence that is peculiar to every 
subject, and consequently no other reason why one and one 

makes two, but the participation of duality, as one is one by 

the partieipation of unity I Would not you diseard these *&« 
ditions, divisions, and all the oilier nice distinctions, and 
leave- them to those who know more than you do ? And, for 
fear of your own shadow, as the proverb goes, or rather 
of your ignorance, would riot you confine yourself to 
this principle ? And if any one attacked it, would not 
you let it stand without deigning him a reply, until you 
bad considered all the consequences? And if afterwards 
you should be obliged to give a reason for them, would not 
you do it by having recourse to some of these oilier hypo- 
theses, that should appear to he the best, and so proceed 
from hypothesis to hypothesis, till you lighted upon some- 
thing that satisfied you, as being a sure and standing truth ? 
At the game time, you would be unwilling to perplex and 

confound all things, as those disputants do, who question 
everything. It is true, these disputants perhaps are not 
Uracil concerned for the truth ; and, by thus mingling and 
perplexing all things by an effect of their profound know- 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 231 

ledge, care only to please them selves. But as for you, if 
you are true philosophers, you will do as I say. 

Simmias and Cehes jointly replied, that he said well. 

Echec. Indeed, Phedon, I think it no wonder ; for to 
my mind, Socrates has explained his principles with won- 
derful clearness, sufficient to make an impression upon 
any man of common sense. 

Pkecl. All the audience thought the same. 

Echec. Even we, who have it only at second hand, find 
it so. But what was said next ? 

Phecl. If I remember right, after they had granted, that 
the species* of things have a real subsistence, and that the 
things participating of their nature take their denomina- 
tion from them ; then, I say, Socrates interrogated Cebes 
as follows : 

If your principle be true, when you say Simmias is 
larger than Socrates, and smaller than Phedon, do not you 
imply that both greatness and littleness are lodged at the 
same time in Simmias ? 

Yes, replies Cebes. 

But do not you admit that the proposition, Simmias is 
bigger than Socrates, is not absolutely and in itself true ? 
For Simmias is not bigger because he is Simmias, but be- 
cause he is possessed of magnitude. Neither is he bigger 
than Socrates because Socrates is Socrates, but because 
Socrates has littleness in comparison with Simmias' s mag- 
nitude. Neither is Simmias less than Phedon because 
Phedon is Phedon, but because Phedon is big when com- 
pared to Simmias who is little. 

That is true. 

Thus, continues Socrates ; Simmias is called both big 
and little, as being between two : by partaking of bigness 
he is bigger than Socrates, and by partaking also of little- 
ness he is smaller than Phedon. Then he smiled, and 
said, methinks I have insisted too long on these things ; 
but I should not have amused myself with these large 
strokes, had it not been to convince you more effectually of 
the truth of my principle : for, as I take it, not only mag- 
nitude itself cannot be at the same time big and small ; 

* By species, he means the eternal ideas of things, which subsist 
really in the mind of God. 



232 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



but besides, the magnitude that is in us does not admit of 
littleness, and has no mind to be surpassed: for either the 
magnitude flees and yields it place when it sees its enemy 
approaching, or else it vanishes and perishes entirely; and, 
when once it has received it, it desires to continue as it is. 
As I, for instance, having received littleness, while I am as 
you see me, cannot but be little : for that which is big 
does never attempt to be little. And in like manner little- 
ness never encroaches upon magnitude. In one word, any 
of the contraries, while it is what it is, is never to be found 
with its contrary; but either disappears or perishes when 
the other comes in. 

Cebes agreed to it : but one of the company, I forget 
who, addressed himself to Socrates thus : In the name of 
all the Gods, did you not say contrary to what you now 
advance ? Did not you conclude upon this, that greater 
things take rise from the lesser, and the lesser from the 
greater ; and, in a word, that contraries do still produce 
their contraries ? Whereas now, as I take it, you say that 
cannot be. 

Whereupon Socrates put his head further out of the bed, 
and, having heard the objection, said to him: Indeed you 
do well to put us in mind of what we said; but you do 
not perceive the difference between the former and the 
latter. In the former we asserted, that every contrary 
owes its being to its contrary : and in the latter we teach, 
that a contrary is never contrary to itself, neither in us, 
nor in the course of nature.* There we spoke of things 
that had contraries, meaning to call every one of them by 
their proper names; but here we speak of such things as 
give a denomination to their subjects, which we told you, 
could never admit of their contraries. Then, turning to 
Cebes, did not this objection, says he, likewise give you 
some trouble ? 

No, indeed, Socrates, replies Cebes ; I can assure you, 
that few things are capable of troubling me at present. 

* That is, be spoke there of sensible things which have coutraries, 
and are capable of receiving these contraries reciprocally, as a little 
thing becomes big, and a big tiling little. But here he speaks of the 
things themselves, the intelligible contraries, such as cold and heat, 
which give name to the subjects they are lodged in, by their own name, 
and are never capable of receiving their contraries; for cold cau 
never become heat, nor heat cold : they are always what they are. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



233 



Then we are agreed upon this simple proposition, says 
Socrates, that a contrary can never be contrary to itself. 
That is true, says Cebes. 

But what do you sav to this ? Is cold and heat any 
thing? 

Yes, certainly. 

What ! is it like snow and fire ? 
No, Socrates. 

Then you admit, that heat is different from fire, and cold 
from snow. 

Without question, Socrates. 

I believe you will likewise admit, that when the snow 
receives heat, it is no more what it was, but either gives 
way, or disappears when the heat approaches. In like 
manner the nre will either yield or be extinguished when 
the cold prevails upon it ; for then it cannot be fire and 
cold together. 

It is so, says Cebes. 

There are also some contraries, that not only give name 
to their species; but likewise impart it to other things dif- 
ferent from it, which preserve its figure and form while 
they have a being. For instance, must not an odd thing 
have always the same name ? 

Yes, surely. 

Is that the only thing that is so called ? Or, is not 
there some other thing different from it, which must needs 
be called by the same name, by reason that it belongs to its 
nature never to be without odds ? For instance, must not 
the ternary number be called not only by its own name, 
but likewise by the name of an odd number ; * though at 
the same time to be odd and to be three are two different 
tilings I Now such is the nature of the number three, five, 
and all other odd numbers; each of them is always odd, 
and yet then- nature is not the same with the nature of the 
odd. In hke manner, even numbers, such as two, four, 
eight, are all of them even, though at the same time their 
nature is not that of even. Do you not acknowledge this ? 

How can I do otherwise, says Cebes ? 

Pray mind what I infer from thence. It is 3 that not 
only those contraries, which are incapable of receiving their 



; " For the ternary number partakes of the odd. 
x 2 



234 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



contraries, but all other things which are not opposite to 
one another, and yet have always their contraries ; all these 
things, I say, are incapable of receiving a form opposite to 
their own ; and either disappear or perish upon the appear- 
ance of the opposite form. For instance : The number 
three will sink a thousand times rather than become an 
even number, while it continues to be three. Is it not so ? 
Yes, replies Cebes. 

But, after all, says Socrates, two are not contrary to 
three. 

No, certainly. 

Then the contrary species are not the only things that 
refuse admission to their contraries ; since, as you see, 
other things that are not contrary cannot abide the ap- 
proach of that which has the least shadow of contrariety. 

That is certain. 

Do you desire then that I should define them as near as 
possible ? 

With all my heart, Socrates. 

Must not contraries be such things as give such aform to 
that in which they are lodged, that it is not capable of giv- 
ing admission to another thing that is contrary to them 1 

What do you say ? 

I say, as I said before : Wherever the idea or form of 
three is lodged, that thing must of necessity continue, not 
only to be three, but to be odd. 

Who doubts that ? 

And, by consequence, it is impossible for the idea or 
form that is contrary to its constituent form, ever to ap- 
proach. 

That is a plain case. 

Well, is not the constituent form an odd ? 
Yes. 

Is not even the form that is contrary to the odd ? 
Yes 

Then the form of even is never lodged in three ? 
Certainly not. 

Then three is incapable of being even ? 
Most certainly. 

And that, because three is odd ? 
Just so. 

Now this is the conclusoin that I would come to, — that 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



235 



some things, that are not contrary to one another, are as 
incapahie of that other thing, as if it were truly a con- 
trary ; as for instance, though three is not contrary to an 
even number, yet it can never admit of it. For two brings 
always something contrary to an odd number, like fire to 
cold, and several other things. Would not you agree, 
then, to this definition, that a contrary does not only 
refuse admission to its contrary, but likewise to that which, 
being not contrary, brings upon it something of a con- 
trary nature, which by that sort of contrariety destroys its 
form ? 

I pray you let me hear that again, says Cebes ; for it is 
worth the while to hear it more than once. 

I say, number five will never be an even number; just 
as ten, which is its double, will never be odd ; no more 
than three-fourths, or a third part, or any other part of a 
whole, will admit of the form and idea of the whole. Do 
you not understand me, and agree with what I say ? 

I apprehend you perfectly, and fully agree with you. 

Since you understand me, says Socrates, pray answer 
me as I do you ; that is, answer not what I ask, but some- 
thing else, according to the idea and example I have given 
you ; I mean, that besides the true and certain way of an- 
swering, spoken of already, I have yet another in my view 
that springs from it, which is equally certain. For in- 
stance, if you ask me what it is, that being in the body, 
makes it hot, I would not give you this ignorant though 
sure answer, that it is heat ; but would draw a more par- 
ticular answer from what we have been speaking of, and 
would tell you that it is fire. And if you should ask what 
it is that makes the body sick, I would not say, it was the 
disease, but the fever. If you ask me what makes a 
number odd, I would not tell you that it is the oddness, 
but unity; and so of the rest. 

Do you understand what I mean ? 

I understand you perfectly, replies Cebes. 

Answer me, then, continues Socrates ; what makes the 
body five ? 

The soul. 

Is the soul always the same ? 
How should it be otherwise ? 



236 



phedon; or, a dialogue 



Does the soul, then, carry life along with it into all the 
bodies it enters 1 
Most certainly. 

Is there any thing that is contrary to life, or is there 
nothing ? 

Yes, death is the contrary of life. 

Then the soul will never receive that which is contrary 
to what it carries in its bosom ? That is a necessary con- 
sequence from our principles. 

It is a plain consequence, says Cebes. 

But what name do we give to that which refuses admis- 
sion to the idea and form of evenness ? 

It is the odd number. 

What do we call that which never receives justice, and 
that which never receives good ? 

The one is called injustice, and the other evil. 

And what do we call that which never admits of death ? 

Immortal. 

Does the soul admit of death ? 
No. 

Then the soul is immortal ?* 
Most certainly. 

Is that fully demonstrated, or was the demonstration 
imperfect ? 

It is fully made good, Socrates. 

If an odd number of necessity were incorruptible, would 
not three be so too ?f 
Who doubts it ? 

If whatever is without heat were necessarily incorrupti- 
ble, would not snow, when put to the fire, withdraw itself 
safe from the danger ? For, since it cannot perish, it will 
never receive the heat, notwithstanding its being held to 
the fire. 

What you say is true. 

In like manner, if that which is not susceptible of cold, 
were by a natural necessity exempted from perishing, 

* His meaning is, that the soul is as far from dying as good from 
giving admission to evil, or justice to injustice, or odd to even. And 
that the soul is immortal, as necessarily as three is odd. 

t If the soul be immortal, it is incorruptible; i. e. it resists and 
triumphs over all the assaults of death. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 237 

though a whole river were thrown upon the fire, it would 
never go out, but, on the contrary, would remain in its 
full force. 

That is certain, says Cebes. 

Then of necessity we must say the same of what is im- 
mortal. If that which is immortal is incorruptible, though 
death approach the soul, it shall never fall in the attack ; 
for, as we said, the soul will not receive death, and conse- 
quently never dies ; just as three, or any odd number, will 
never be even ; and as fire will never be cold, or its heat 
turned into coldness. 

Perhaps some may answer, that it is true, the odd can 
never become even, by the accession of what is even, while 
it continues odd ; but what should hinder the even from 
taking up the room of the odd, when the latter has pe- 
rished ? To this objection, it cannot be answered that the 
odd does not perish., for that it is not incorruptible. Had 
we established its incorruptibility, we should justly have 
maintained, that notwithstanding the attacks of the even, 
the odd of three would still come off without loss. And 
we should have asserted the same of fire, heat, and such 
other things ; should we not ? 

Most certainly, says Cebes. 

And, by consequence, if we agree in this, that every 
immortal thing is incorruptible, it will necessarily follow, 
not only that the soul is immortal, but that it is incorrupti- 
ble. And if we cannot agree upon that, we must look out 
for another proof. 

There is no occasion for that, Socrates, replies Cebes ; 
for what should avoid corruption and death, if an immortal 
and eternal being be liable to them ? 

All the world will agree, says Socrates, that God, and 
life itself, and whatever is immortal, cannot perish. 

At least, says Cebes, all men profess to do so. The con- 
sequence seems necessary.* Hence, continues Socrates, 
when a man dies, his mortal and corruptible part suffers 

* Cebes means, that men will be forced to say so, because, per- 
haps, they have not light enough to answer these reasons, even 
though they were none of the best. Socrates, discerniug this to be 
the import of Cebes's words, on that view makes this incomparable 
reply, — That the Gods will yet more agree to it. Meaning to say, 
that truth is more true in the intellect of God than in the mind of 
man, which is always too weak to comprehend it. 



238 



PHEDON; OR, A DIALOGUE 



dissolution; but the immortal part escapes unhurt, and 
triumphs over death. 

That is plain and evident. 

Then, my dear Cebes, if there be any such thing as an 
immortal and incorruptible being, such a being is the soul; 
consequently our souls shall live hereafter. 

I have nothing to object, says Cebes; and cannot but 
yield to your arguments. But if Simmias, or any of the 
company has any thing to offer, they will do well not to 
stifle it; for when will they find another opportunity of 
discoursing and satisfying themselves upon these important 
subjects? 

For my part, says Simmias, I cannot but subscribe to 
what Socrates has said; but I own, that the greatness of 
the subject, and the natural weakness of man, occasion 
within me a sort of distrust and incredulity. 

You have not only spoken well, says Socrates; but, not- 
withstanding the apparent certainty of our first hypothesis, 
it is needful you should resume the discourse, in order to 
a more leisurely view, and to convince yourself more 
clearly and effectually. "When you thoroughly understand 
it, you will need no other proof. 

That is well said, replies Cebes. 

There is one thing more, my friends, that is a very 
just thought, viz. that if the soul is immortal, it stands in 
need of cultivation and improvement, not only in the time 
that we call this life; but for the future; or what we 
call eternity.* For if you think justly upon this point, you 
will find it very dangerous to neglect the soul. Were 
death the dissolution of the whole man, it would be a 
great advantage to the wicked after death, to be rid at once 
of their body, their soul, and their vices also. But foras- 
much as the soul is immortal, the only way to avoid those 
evils and obtain salvation, is to become good and wise; for 
it carries nothing along with it, but its good or bad quali- 
ties, its virtues or vices, which are the cause of its eternal 
happiness or misery, commencing from the first moment of 
its arrival in the other world. And it is said, that after 

* It is not enough that the understanding be convinced of the 
immortality of the soul ; the affections must likewise be moved. To 
which end he dwells upon the consequences of that important truth, 
and all that it requires. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 239 



the death of every individual, the demon or genius, that 
was partner with it, and conducted it during life, leads it 
to a certain place, where all the dead are ohliged to appear 
in order to be judged, and from thence are conducted by a 
guide to the world below. And, after they have there re- 
ceived their good or bad deserts, and continued their ap- 
pointed time, another conductor brings them back to this 
life, after several revolutions of ages. Now this road is 
not a plain and straight one, else there would be no occa- 
sion for guides, and nobody would miss their way. But 
there are several by-ways and cross-ways, as I conjecture 
from the method of our sacrifices and religious ceremo- 
nies. So that a temperate wise soul follows its guide, and 
is not ignorant of what happens to it. But the soul, that 
is nailed to its body, that is inflamed with the love of it, 
and has been long its slave, after much struggling and 
suffering in this visible world, is at last dragged along 
against its will by the demon allotted for its guide. And 
when it arrives at that fatal rendezvous of all souls, if it 
has been guilty of any impurity, or polluted with murder, 
or has committed any of those atrocious crimes, that des- 
perate and lost souls are commonly guilty of, the other 
souls abhor it and avoid its company. It finds neither 
companion nor guide, but wanders in a fearful solitude and 
horrible desert; till after a certain time necessity drags it 
into the mansions it deserves : whereas the temperate and 
pure soul, has the Gods themselves for its guides and con- 
ductors, and goes to converse with them in the happy 
mansions prepared for it. For, my friends, there are se- 
veral marvellous places in the earth; and it is not at all 
such as the describers of it are wont to make it,* as I was 
taught by one who well knew it. 

What do you say, Socrates, says Simmias, interrupting 
him? I have likewise heard several things of the earth, 
but not what you have heard. Wherefore I wish you would 
be pleased to tell us what you know. 

To recount that to you, my dear Simmias, I do not be- 

* Socrates does not mention who taught him this doctrine of the 
pure faith ; but it is no hard matter to find out the author. Proclus 
himself acknowledges, that Socrates and Plato owed this idea to the 
sacred tradition of the Egyptians, that is, to the Hebrews, 6 /cat rj 
tujv Aiyvirr'uiov iepa pqfiri wapadedoKe. In Tim. lib. i. 



240 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



lieve we have any occasion, for you know Glaucus's art.* 
But to make out the truth of it, is a more difficult matter, 
and I question if all Glaucus's art can reach it. Such an 
attempt is not only above my reach; but supposing it 
were not, the short time I have left me, will not suffer me 
to embark in so long a discourse. All that I can do is, to 
give you a general idea of this earth, and the places it 
contains. 

That will be enough, says Simmias. 

In the first place, continues Socrates, I am persuaded, 
that if the earth is placed in the air, in the middle of hea- 
ven, as they say it is, it stands in no need of air, or any 
other support to prevent its fall; its own equilibrium is suf- 
ficient to keep it up. For whatever is equally poised in 
the middle of a thing, that presses equally upon it, cannot 
incline to either side, and consequently stands firm and 
immovable. This I am convinced of. 

Doubtless you have reason, replies Simmias. 

I am farther persuaded, that the earth is very large and 
spacious, and that we only inhabit that part of it which 
reaches from the river Phasis to the Straits of Gibraltar, 
upon which we are scattered like so many ants dwelling in 
holes, or like frogs that reside in some marsh near the sea. 
There are several other nations that inhabit its other parts 
that are unknown to us; for, all over the earth there are 
holes of all sizes and figures, always filled with gross air, 
and covered with thick clouds, and overflown by the waters 
that rush in on all sides. 

There is another pure earthf above the pure heaven 
where the stars are, which is commonly called iEther. 

* When they meant to imply the difficulty of a thing, they were 
wont to say, by way of proverb, that they stood in need of Glaucus's 
art, who, from a man, became a sea-god. But those who comment 
upon this proverb, allege that it was made upon another Glaucus, 
who invented the forging of iron. But I am induced to believe the 
contrary by this, that the fable of Glaucus, the sea-god, was founded 
apon his being an excellent diver ; to which it is probable, Socrates 
nlluded : seriously, if one would visit the earth he speaks of, of 
which ours is only a sediment, he must be a better diver than Glau- 
cus, in order to pass the currents and seas that divide them. He 
must raise his thoughts above all earthly or material things. 

t The idea of this pure earth is taken from the writings of the 
prophets, from whence the Egyptians derived it. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



241 



The earth we inhabit is properly nothing else but the sedi- 
ment of the other, and its grosser part which flows conti- 
nually into those holes. We are immured in these cells, 
though we are not sensible of it, and fancy we inhabit the 
upper part of the pure earth : much after the same manner, 
as if one living in the deeps of the sea, should fancy his ha- 
bitation to be above the waters ; and when he sees the sun 
and other stars through the waters, should fancy the sea to 
be the heavens ; and by reason of his heaviness and weak- 
ness, having never put forth his head or raised himself 
above the waters, should never know that the place we in- 
habit is purer and better than his, and should never meet 
with any person to inform him. This is just our condi- 
tion; we are mewed up within some hole of the earth, and 
fancy we live at the top of all: we take the air for the true 
heavens, in which the stars run their rounds ; and the 
cause of our mistake, is our heaviness and weakness, that 
keep us from surmounting this thick and muddy air. If 
any could mount up with wings to the upper surface, he 
would no sooner put his head out of this gross air, than he 
would behold what is transacted in those blessed mansions ; 
just as the fishes skipping above the surface of the waters, 
see what is done in the air which we breathe. And if 
he were a man fit for long contemplation, he would find it 
to be the true heaven and the true light ; in a word, to be 
the true earth.* In order to make you conceive the beauty 
of this pure earth situated in the heavens, I will tell you, 
if you please, a story that is worth your hearing. 

We shall hear it, says Simmias, with a great deal of 
pleasure. 

First of all, my dear Simmias, continues Socrates, if 
we look upon this perfect earth from a high place, they 
say, it looks like one of our packs covered with twelve 
welts of different colours. f For it is varied with a greater 
number of different colours, of which those made use of by 
our painters are but imperfect patterns. For the colours 
of this earth are infinitely more clear and lively. One is 

* The true heavens and the true light cannot be known any other 
way but by long and continual meditation. 

t This description of the beauty of this pure earth, the mansion 
of the blessed, is grounded on the 54th chapter of Isaiah, and the 
28th of Ezekiel 

Y 



242 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



an admirable purple; another a colour of gold, more spark- 
ling than gold itself; a third a white, more lively than the 
snow; and so on of all the rest, the beauty whereof leaves all 
our colours far behind it. The chinks of this earth are 
filled with water and air, which make up an infinity of 
admirable shadows, wonderfully diversified by that infi- 
nite variety of colours. 

In this so perfect an earth, every thing has a perfection 
answerable to its qualities. The trees, flowers, fruits, and 
mountains are charmingly beautiful; they produce all 
sorts of precious stones of an incomparable perfection, 
clearness and splendour ; those we esteem so much here, 
as jasper, emeralds, and sapphire, are not comparable to 
them. There is not one in thnt blessed earth that is not 
infinitely superior to any of ours. 

Besides the beauties now mentioned, this earth is 
encircled with gold and silver, which being scattered all 
over in great abundance, casts forth a charming splendour 
on all sides. A sight of this earth is a view of the blessed. 
It is inhabited by all sorts of animals,* and by men, some 
of whom are cast into the centre of the earth, and others 
are scattered about the air, as we are about the sea. 
There are some also that inhabit the isles, formed by the 
air near the continent. f For there the air is the same 
thing that water and the sea are here ; and the aether 
does them the same service that the air does to us. Their 
seasons are so admirably well tempered, that their life is 
much longer than ours, and always free from diseases : 
and as for their sight, hearing, and ail their other senses, 
and even their intellect itself, they surpass us as far as the 
aether they breathe exceeds our gross air in simplicity and 
purity. They have sacred groves, and temples actually 
inhabited by the Gods, who give evidence of their presence 
by oracles, divinations, inspirations, and all other sensible 

* The notion of these animals seems to be taken from the visions 
of Ezekiel. 

t In this description we may perceive most of the marks given 
by Moses of the terrestrial paradise, which was a type of this 
land of the just, the true paradise. And, what I take to be very re- 
markable, we may plainly see that these philosophers held this pure 
earth to le actually in being at the same time with this our impure 
and grosser earth. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



243 



signs ; and also personally converse with them. They see 
the sun and moon, without an intervening medium, and 
view the stars as they are in themselves ; and all the 
other branches of their felicity are proportional to these. 

This is the situation of that earth, and this is the mat- 
ter that surrounds it. About it are several abysses, 
some of which are deeper and more open than the country 
we inhabit ; others are deeper, but not so open ; and some 
again have a more extensive breadth, but lesser depth. 
All these abysses are perforated in several parts, and 
have pipes communicating one with another, through 
which there runs, just as in the caves of Mount iEtna, 
very large and deep rivers, springs of cold and hot water, 
fountains, and rivers of fire.* 

These abysses are filled with waters falling out of one 
into another. All these sources move both downwards 
and upwards, like a vessel hung above the earth ; which 
vessel is naturally one, and indeed the greatest of these 
abysses. It goes across the whole earth, and is open 
on two sides. Homer speaks of it,f when he says, I 
will throw it into obscure Tartarus, a great way from 
hence, J the deepest abyss under the earth. Homer is not 
the only author that called this place by the name of Tar- 
tarus ; most of the other poets did the same. 

All the rivers run into this abyss, and flow from thence 
again. Each of these rivers is tinctured with the nature 
of the earth through which it runs. And the reason of 
their not stagnating in this abyss, is, that they find no 
resting-place, but roll and throw their waters upside down. 
The air and wind that surround them, does the same, for 
it follows them, both when they rise above they earth, and 
when they descend towards us. And just as in the respi- 
ration of animals, there is an incessant ingress and egress 

* Plato borrowed from the writings of the prophets those rivers 
of fire prepared for the punishment of the wicked after their judg- 
ment; and particularly had read the 8th chapter of Daniel. Theo- 
doret. 

t In the beginning of the 8th book of his Iliads. 

% The prophet Ezekiel calls this Tartarus" the nether part of the 
earth." He speaks of the rivers and waters in the pit, ch. xxxi. 
14, 13. andxxxii. 18. But long before Ezekiel, Homer had the same 
ideas from the tradition of the Egyptians. 



244 



phedon; or, a dialogue 



of air, so the air that is mingled with the waters, ac- 
companies them, and raises raging winds. 

When these waters fall into this lower abyss, they dif- 
fuse themselves into all the channels of springs and rivers, 
and fill them ; just as if one were drawing up water 
with two pails, one of which fills as the other empties. 
For the waters flowing from thence, fill up all our chan- 
nels, from whence diffusing themselves, they make our 
seas, rivers, lakes, and fountains. After that they disap- 
pear, and diving into the earth, some with a large compass, 
and others by small windings, repair to Tartarus, where 
they enter by other and lower passages than those they 
came out by. Some re-enter on the same side, and 
others on the opposite side to that of their egress ; and 
some again enter on all sides, after they have made one 
or several turns round the earth ; like serpents folding 
their bodies into several rolls ; and having gained entrance, 
rise up to the middle of the abyss, but cannot reach 
farther, by reason that the other half is higher than their 
level. They form several very great and large currents ; 
but there are four principal ones, * the greatest of which is 
the outermost of all, and is called the ocean. 

Opposite to that is Acheron, which runs through the 
desert places, and diving through the earth, falls into the 
marsh, which from it is called the Acherusian Lake, 
where all souls repair upon their departure from this 
body; and having remained there the time appointed, 
some a shorter, some a longer time, are sent back to this 
world to animate beasts. 

Between Acheron and the ocean, there runs a third 
river, which retires again not far from its source, and falls 
into a vast space full of fire : there it forms a lake greater 
than our sea, in which the water mixed with earth, boils, 
and setting out from thence black and muddy, runs along 
the earth to the end of the Acherusian Lake, without 
mixing with its waters ; and having made several turnings 

* These four rivers, which have their course in the places ap- 
pointed for the punishment of the wicked, might easily have been 
imagined from the four rivers of the terrestrial paradise. As the 
apartment of the just was watered by four rivers, which increased 
its delightfulness, it was proper that the apartment of the wicked 
should likewise be watered by four rivers of a contrary nature, 
which might add to the horror of that place of darkness and sorrow. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



245 



throws itself underneath Tartarus : tins is the flaming 
river called Phlegeton, the streams whereof are seen to 
ascend up to the earth in several places. 

Opposite to this is the fourth river, which falls first into 
a horrible place, of a bluish colour, called by the name of 
Stygian, where it makes the formidable Lake of Styx : 
and after it has imbibed the most horrible qualities from 
the waters of that lake, descends into the earth, where 
after making several windings, it directs its course to- 
wards Phlegeton, at last meets it in the Lake of Acheron, 
where it does not mingle its waters with those of the 
other rivers ; but after it has made its circuit round the 
earth, throws itself into Tartarus by a passage opposite to 
that of Phlegeton. This fourth river is called by the 
poets Cocytus. Nature having thus disposed of these 
things, when the dead arrive at the place where their 
demon leads them, they are all tried and judged, both 
those that lived a holy and just life, and those who wal- 
lowed in injustice and impiety. 

As for those who are found to have lived neither entirely 
a criminal, nor absolutely an innocent life, — these are sent 
to Acheron, where they embark in boats, and are trans- 
ported to the Acherusian Lake. Here they dwell, and suf- 
fer punishments proportionable to their crimes ; till at last, 
being purged and cleansed from their sins, and set at 
liberty, they receive the recompence of their good actions. 

Those whose sins are incurable, who have been guilty 
of sacrilege, murder, or such other crimes, are, by a just 
and fatal destiny, thrown headlong into Tartarus, where 
they are kept prisoners for ever. 

But those who are found guilty of curable sins, though 
very great ones, — such as offering violence to their father 
or mother in a passion, or murder, and afterwards repent- 
ing of it, — these must of necessity be likewise cast into 
Tartarus ; but after a year's abode there, the tide throws 
the homicides back into Cocytus, and the parricides into 
Phlegeton, which draws them into the Acherusian Lake. 
There they cry out bitterly, and invoke those whom they 
have killed or offered violence to, to forgive them, and to 
suffer them to pass the lake. If they are prevailed with, 
they pass the lake, and are delivered from their misery ; if 
not, they are thrown back again into those rivers ; and this 



246 



PHEDON; OR, A DIALOGUE 



continues to be repeated, till they have satisfied the injured 
persons. For such is the sentence pronounced against 
them. 

But those who have distinguished themselves by a holy 
life, are released from these earthly places, these horrible 
prisons, and are received above into that pure earth, where 
they dwell ; and those of them who are sufficiently purged 
by philosophy, live for ever without their bodies,* and are 
received into yet more admirable and delicious mansions, 
which I cannot easily describe; neither do the narrow 
limits of my time allow me to launch into that subject. 

What I have said, my dear Simmias, ought sufficient4y 
to shew, that we should labour all our lives to acquire 
virtue and wisdom, since we have so great a reward pro- 
posed to us, and so bright a prospect before us. 

No man of sense would pretend to assert that all these 
things are exactly as you have heard ; but all thinking 
men will agree that the state of the soul, and the place 
of its abode after death, is either such as I represent it to 
be, or very near like it, provided the soul be immortal; 
and will certainly find it worth while to run the risk, for 
what was ever more inviting? One cannot but be charmed 
with that blessed hope. And for this reason I have thus 
cWelt upon it. 

Every one who, during his life-time, has renounced the 
pleasures of the body; has pursued only the pleasures of 
true knowledge ; and beautified his soul, not with foreign 
ornaments, but with ornaments suitable to its nature, such 
as temperance, justice, fortitude, liberty, and truth. Such 
a one, being firmly confident of the happiness of his soul, 
ought to wait peacefully for the hour of his removal, as 
being always ready for the voyage, whenever his fate calls 
him. 

As for you, my dear Simmias and Cebes, and all you of 
this company, you will all follow me shortly. My hour 
is come; and, as a tragic poet would say, the surly pilot 
calls me aboard ; wherefore it is time I should go to the 
bath, for I think it better, before I drink the poison, to 
be washed, in order to save the women that trouble after I 
am dead. 

* This was a great error among the heathens. They did not be- 
lieve that the body could be glorified. 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



247 



Socrates having spoken, Crito thus addressed him : 
Alas, then ! in God's name he it so. But what orders do 
you give us with reference to your children, or your affairs, 
that, by putting them in execution, we may at least have 
the comfort of serving you ? 

What I now recommend to you, replies Socrates, is 
what I always recommended, viz. to take care of your- 
selves. You cannot do me a greater service, nor oblige me 
and my family more,* than by promising me at this time 
to do so. Whereas, if you neglect yourselves, and refuse 
to conform your lives to the modelf T always proposed to 
you, and follow it as it were by the footsteps ; your pro- 
testations and offers of service will be altogether useless. 

We shall do our utmost, Socrates, replies Crito, to obey 
you. But how will you be buried ? 

Just as you please, says Socrates, if I do not slip from 
you. At the same time, looking upon us with a gentle 
smile, I cannot, says he, attain my end, in persuading 
Crito that this is Socrates who discourses with you, and 
methodizes all the parts of this discourse; and still he 
fancies that Socrates is the thing that shall shortly see 
death. He confounds me with my corpse ; and in that 
view asks how I will be buried ? And all this after the 
long discourse that I made to you lately > in order to shew 
that as soon as I shall have taken the poison, I shall stay 
no longer with you, but shall part from hence, and go to 
enjoy the felicity of the blessed; in a word, all that I 
have said for your consolation and mine, is to no purpose, 
but is all lost with reference to him. I beg that you 
will be bail for me to Crito, but after a contrary man- 
ner to that in which he offered to bail me to my judges ; 

* There is a great deal of sense in what Socrates here tells his 
friends. He desires them only to take care of themselves, because 
if they take care of themselves, they will prove good men ; and, be- 
ing such, will do all good offices to his family, though they did not 
promise it : for good men are honest, they love their neighbours, 
and take pleasure in doing good. Whereas, if they neglect them- 
selves, notwithstanding all their fair promises, they would not be 
able to do any one good. None but good men can do us service. 
How great is this truth ! 

f This model is God; for he still told them that they should ren- 
der themselves conformable to God, as much as human weakness 
would bear. 



248 



PHEDON ; OR, A DIALOGUE 



for he engaged that I would not be gone. Pray engage 
for me, that I shall no sooner be dead, than I shall be gone, 
to the end that poor Crito may bear my death more 
steadily, and that, when he sees my body burnt or interred, 
he may not despair, as if I suffered great misery, and say 
at my funeral that Socrates is laid out ; Socrates is car- 
ried out ; Socrates is interred. For you must know, my 
dear Crito, says he, turning to him, that speaking amiss 
of death is not only a fault in the way of discourse, but 
likewise wounds the soul. You should have known that my 
body is to be buried ; and that you are at liberty to inter 
it as you please, and in the manner that is most conform- 
able to our laws and customs. 

Having spoken thus, he went into the next room to bathe. 
Crito followed him, and he desired we should attend. 
Accordingly we all attended him, entertaining ourselves at 
one time with repeating and farther examining what he 
had said ; at another time in speaking of the miserable 
prospect that was before us. For we all looked upon our- 
selves as persons deprived of our good father, and doomed 
to pass the rest of our lives in an orphan state. 

After he came out of the bath, they brought his children 
to him ; for he had three, two young ones, and one that 
was older : and all the women of his family went to him. 
He spoke to them for some time in the presence of Crito, 
gave them their orders, obliged them to retire with his 
children, and then came back to us. It was then towards 
sun-setting, for he had been a long while in the little 
room. 

When he came in, he sat down upon his bed, without 
saying much : for about the same time the officer of the 
eleven magistrates came in, and drawing near to him, So- 
crates, says he, I have no occasion to make the complaint 
of you, that I have every day of those in the same condi- 
tion ; for as soon as I come to acquaint them, by orders 
from the magistrates, that they mast drink the poison, 
they are incensed against me and curse me : but as 
for you, since you came here, I have found you to be 
the calmest and best man that ever entered this prison ; 
and I am confident that at present you are not angry with 
me : doubtless you are angry with none, but those who are 
the cause of your misfortune. You know them without 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 249 



naming, Socrates/you know what I come to tell you; 
farewell, endeavour to bear this necessity with a constant 
mind. Having thus spoken, he began to weep, and turning 
his back upon us, retired a little. Farewell, my friend, says 
Socrates, looking upon him, I will follow the counsel thou 
givest me. Observe, says he, what honesty is in that fel- 
low ! During my imprisonment he has come often to see 
me, and discourse with me : observe how he weeps for me. 
My dear Crito, if the poison be prepared, bring it ; if not, 
let him prepare it himself. 

But, methinks, Socrates, says Crito, the sun shines upon 
the mountains, and is not yet set ; and I know that several 
in your circumstances did not drink the poison till a long 
time after the order was given ; they supped first, and en- 
joyed any thing they had a mind to : wherefore I conjure 
you not to press so hard ; you have yet time enough. 

Those who do as you say, Crito, says Socrates, have their 
own reasons ; they think it is just as much time gained : 
and I have likewise my reasons for not doing so ; for the 
only advantage I can have for drinking it later, is to make 
myself ridiculous to myself, in being so foolishly fond of 
life, as to pretend to husband it in the last minute, when 
there is no more to come.* Go then, my dear Crito, and 
do as I bid you, and trouble me no longer. 

Whereupon Crito gave the sign to the slave that waited 
just by. The slave went out, and after he had spent some 
time in preparing the poison, returned, accompanied by 
him that was to give it, and brought it all together in one 
cup. Socrates seeing him come in, said, That is well my 
friend ; but what must I do ? For you know best, and 
it is your business to direct me. 

You have nothing else to do, says he, but whenever you 
have drank it, to walk until you find your legs stiff, and 
then to lie down upon your bed. This is all you have to 
do. And at the same time he gave him the cup : Socrates 
took it, not only without any commotion, or change of 
colour or countenance, but with joy ; and looking upon 
the fellow with a bold and lively eye, as he was wont to do, 
What do you say of this mixture, says he, is it allowable 

* He alludes to a verse of Hesiod, who says, (i it is an unlucky 
sparing when one is come to the bottom." 



250 



PHEDON? OR, A DIALOGUE 



to make a drink-offering of it ? Suerates, replied the man, 
x we never make more at once than serves for a dose. 

I understand you, says Socrates : but at least it is law- 
ful for me to pray to the Gods. This I beg of them with 
all my soul, that they would bless the voyage, and render 
it happy. Having said that, he drank it off, with an ad- 
mirable tranquillity and an inexpressible calmness. 

Hitherto we had, almost all of us, the power to refrain 
from tears ; but when we saw him drink it off, we were no 
longer masters of ourselves. Notwithstanding all my 
efforts, I was obliged to cover my face with my mantle, 
that I might freely give utterance to my feelings, for it was 
not alone Socrates' s misfortune, but my own, that I de- 
plored, in reflecting what a friend I was losing. Crito, 
likewise, could not abstain from weeping; and Apollodorus, 
who had scarce ceased to shed tears during the whole con- 
ference, did then howl and cry aloud, so as to move every 
one with his lamentations. Socrates himself alone remained 
unmoved: on the contrary, he reproved them. What are 
you doing, my friends ? says he. What ! such fine men as 
you are ! 0 where is virtue ? Was it not for that, I sent 
off those women? I have always heard it said that a 
man ought to die in tranquillity, and blessing God? Be 
easy then ; and shew more constancy and courage. These 
words filled us with confusion, and forced us to suppress 
our sorrows. 

In the mean time, he continued to walk, and when he 
felt his legs stiff, he lay down on his back, as the man had 
ordered him. At this time, the same person who gave him 
the poison, came up to him, and after looking upon his 
legs and feet, bound up his feet with all his force, and 
asked him if he felt it? He said, No. Then he bound up 
his legs; and having carried his hands higher, gave us 
the signal that he was quite cold. Socrates likewise felt 
himself with his hand, and told us, that when the cold 
came up to his heart, he should leave us. And then un- 
covering himself, for he was covered, Crito, says he, these 
were his last words, " We owe a cock to iEsculapius, dis- 
charge this vow for me, and do not forget it."* It shall 

* Those who have not dived into the true meaning of Socrates, charge 
him with idolatry and superstition, upon the score of this cock that 
he ad vowed to iEsculapius. But these words should not be taken 



OF THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 



251 



be done, says Crito ; but see if you have any thing else to 
say to us. He made no answer, and after a little space of 
time, departed. The man, who was still by him, having 
uncovered him, received his last looks, which continued 
fixed upon him. Crito, seeing that, came up and closed 
his mouth and eyes. 

This, Echecrates, was the exit of our friend; a man, 
who, beyond all dispute, was the wisest and the best of all 
our acquaintance.* 

literally; they are enigmatical, as many of Plato's words are ; and 
can never be understood, unless we have recourse to figures and alle- 
gories. The cock here is the symbol oflife, and ZEsculapius the em- 
blem of physic. Socrates's meaning is, that he resigns his soul into 
the hands of the true physician, who comes to purify aad heal him. 
This explication suits admirably well with the doctrine taught by 
Socrates in this same treatise, where he shews that religious sacri- 
fices were only figures- Theodoret had a juster notion of this pas- 
sage than Lactantius and Tertullian ; for he not only did not con- 
demn it, but insinuated that it was figurative, in his 7th Discourse of 
the Opinions of the Pagans. " 1 am persuaded/' says he, " that 
Socrates ordered a cock to be sacrificed to .ZEsculapius, to shew the 
injustice of his condemnation." For he was condemned for owning 
no God, but he did acknowledge a God, and shewed that his God 
stood in no need of our sacrifices or homage, and required nothing 
else from us but piety and sanctity. 

* Xenophon, that faithful historian of the actions and memorable 
sayings of Socrates, gives him the same encomium ; and having said, 
that he was the best man in the world, and the greatest favourite 
with God, concludes in these words: ''If any man be of another 
mind, pray let him compare his manners and actions with those of 
other men, and then let him judge." In fact, that is the true way 
of judging men. Nothing but true religion did ever form a more 
wonderful and divine man* 



THE 



INTRODUCTION TO LACHES. 



The education of children is a thing of such importance, 
that the welfare of families and the good of estates depend 
wholly upon it. It is no wonder then, that Socrates, who 
so passionately loved his country, was so watchful in pre- 
venting the Athenians from adopting false measures in 
reference to that point, and made it his business to cor- 
rect their notions. The most erroneous, and perhaps 
the most pernicious to the republic, was that which they 
entertained of valour. The wars they were then engaged 
in, together with those that threatened them afar off, had 
inspired them with such a martial ardour, that they thought 
of nothing but training up their children to the exercise of 
arms ; as being persuaded that that was the only way to 
render them serviceable to their country. Besides, a cir- 
cumstance had occurred which tended to increase this pre- 
dilection; for not long before, a fencing-master had come 
to Athens, who talked wonders of his art, pretending to 
teach valour, and to put his scholars in a condition to resist 
by themselves a greater number of enemies. The people 
crowded to his school, and the youth neglected every 
thing to apply themselves to this exercise. Socrates, 
foreseeing the dangerous consequence of this their ap- 
plication, labours to prevent it : and that is the subject of 
this conference. As this dialogue recommends itself by 
its imposing title, so the character of its actors excites our 
curiosity. Lysirnachus, son of the great Aris tides, and 
Melesias, son of the great Thucydides, dissatisfied with their 
own education, and resolving to take more care of their 
children than their fathers had taken of them, went to 
Nicias and Laches, who already made a considerable figure 
in the republic, and carried them to see this fencing-master. 



THE INTRODUCTION TO LACHES*. 



253 



After the show was over, they asked the advice of these two 
friends, whether they approved of that exercise, and whe- 
ther they would have their children learn? So that valour 
became the subject of discourse ; and it was very pro- 
bable that no persons could speak better upon that subject, 
than those who had given proof of their valour on several 
occasions. But, after all, they do not think themselves able 
to decide so difficult a question, without help : therefore 
they call in Socrates to assist them, as being one who made 
the interest of youth his peculiar study; and, besides, 
had given proof of heroic courage at the siege of Potidsea, 
and the battle of Delium. Nicias is of opinion, that the 
exercise is very proper for youth, and admirably well calcu- 
lated for rendering them brave and expert ; and considers 
it as a means leading to a good end, namely, the art of 
war. Laches attacks this opinion, and makes out the use- 
lessness of that exercise by the insignificancy of its teachers, 
who never did a good action in their whole lives ; and as 
for valour, had never gained the least reputation in the 
army. Socrates is called in to decide the controversy. At 
first he pleads incapacity as an excuse : but afterwards 
insinuates that there is a necessity of knowing men, before 
one can be acquainted with valour. He shews the falsity 
of the notion that great men had entertained of this virtue, 
and which is still kept up to the present day. And though 
he does not reveal his mind plainly to these who call every 
thing in question ; yet one may easily perceive his opinion 
to be this : That valour is a virtue that reaches through all 
the actions of life, and includes all other virtues. For a 
valiant man is one that is always accompanied by prudence, 
and judges equally of things past, present, and to come ; 
who being acquainted with the good and evil, that has 
been, or is to come, is in a condition to arm himself 
against the one, and omits nothing to compass the other. 
So that to be valiant, one must be good; and to educate 
youth aright, they must be taught wisely to avoid all evil, 
and pursue all the good they can attain, not only from men, 
but which is more important, from God himself ; and to 
spare neither labour nor life in the pursuit. This is So- 
crates' s doctrine. And Plato has made the world a good 
present, in preserving this excellent conference : for we 
ought not to look on it as a trial of skill, but as a solid and 

z 



254 



THE INTRODUCTION TO LACHES. 



instructive discourse. Pursuant to this doctrine of Socrates, 
we plainly see that the martyrs were the most valorous of 
men ; for their valour was accompanied by true prudence, 
which taught them to distinguish that which is truly ter- 
rible, from that which is not; to know past, present, and 
future happiness or misery; and this moved them to 
avoid the one, and pursue the other, even at the expence 
of their lives. 

It seems Aristotle did not perceive the full force and soli- 
dity of these principles of Socrates, when he arraigned him 
for saying that valour was a science. Doubtless, it is a 
science, but a divine one, that cannot be learned from men. 

The solidity of this dialogue is enlivened by a variety of 
agreeable and interesting matter : for whether we regard 
the beauty of his characters, the liveliness of the narrative, 
the spirit of the dialogue, or the satirical strokes it is fall 
of, we find nothing more perfect in its kind. His satire 
upon those mighty politicians who employ all their care 
on affairs of state, and neglect their children, suffering 
them to be overrun with vice, is very natural. Socrates 
means by it to shew that these men do more harm to the 
commonwealth, by this unhappy negligence, than good by 
all the services they have done. His satire against fenc- 
ing-masters is likewise very ingenious, in which the cha- 
racter of our modern pretenders is admirably drawn. Those 
who have taken notice of Nicias in Thucydides, haranguing 
in the Athenian council against the Sicilian expedition, 
will here find an exact transcript of his true character. 
And that which above all deserves to be remarked, is Plato's 
dexterity in extolling Socrates, and setting his merit in a 
true light. 

This Dialogue is supposed to have been composed soon 
after the defeat of the Athenians at Delium, which hap- 
pened in the first year of the 89th Olympiad. 



255 



LACHES; OR, OF VALOUR. 



Lysimachtjs, Son of Aristides the Just. 

Melesias, Son of Thucydides. 

Aristides, Son of Lysimachus, \ Both of them 

Thucydides, Son of Melesias, / very young. 

Nicias, General of the Athenians. 

Laches, another Athenian General. 

Socrates. 

Lysim. Well, Nicias and Laches, you have seen this man 
parry in armour :* When Melesias and I desired you to 
come and see this display, we did not tell you the reasons 
that induced us to it; but now we will tell you, being 
persuaded that we may speak with entire confidence. 
Now each of us has a son here : That youth, the son of 
Melesias, is called Thucydides, his grandfather's name : 
and this, which is mine, is called Aristides, after my father. 
We are resolved to take a singular care of their educatiou, 
and not act as most fathers do, who, when their children 
become young men, suffer them to Ike according to their 
fancy. We design to keep them still in awe, and educate 
them to the best advantage. And forasmuch as you have 
likewise children, doubtless you have thought as much as 
any man upon the method of making them virtuous : or 
if you have not yet considered of it, by reason of their ten- 
der age, we presume you will not take it ill that we put 
you in mind, that this is an indispensable duty; and call 
upon you to deliberate with us, what education all of us 
should give our children. This was the reason of our 
coming to see you. 

Though the discourse may seem long, yet you will 
have the goodness to hear it. You know, Melesias and 
I have but one table, and these children eat with us: 
we shall conceal nothing from you, and, as I told you 

* I use the same terms as are now in use, because the exercise this 
man taught was much the same with what is now taught in our fenc- 
ing-schools. He taught them to fence in armour with sword and 
buckler, and to re sist several combatants at once, by parrying and 
striking. It is very remarkable, that these sort of fencing-masters 
were not known at Athens till after the defeat at Delium. 



tACHEl ; 0% 



st first* ibafl •peak to you with an entire confidence. 
Both be snd I have entertained our chldnm with thoU- 
iand* of' hrave action:-: done hy our father* hoth in peace 

and war, while they headed the Athenian* wad their allies: 
hut to our ^reat miafortune, we can I' ll them no such thing 
of ourselves, This coven km with ihame i we blush for it 
before out children* and ore forced to cast (he blame upon 
our bthers; who, after ire grew up, tottered as to live in 
efletainacy and luxury ; while they were ei&ploying i0 
their care for the interest of the public. This we inces- 
santly imprese upon our children, telling them, that if they 
neglect them elves, and disobey us, ii wiU prove a discredit 
to them ; whereas* if the? will take pains, they may quickly 
approve themselves* to ie worthy of the name they bear. 

They answer, that they will obey Hi) and upon that ac- 
count we desired to know what tney ihould be taught, and 

What education we rhould give them, jn order to tlieil 
greatest improvement. Some one told un, then! wan no- 
thing more proper for a young gentleman than fencing; and 

extolled tO lha w ry heaven* thi« man, who junt now per- 

formed hie exercise before ne, and pressed ns to come tad 
iee him again* Accordingly, we thought, it convenient 
to take you along with nsj not only that you might par- 

take of the pleasure, hut likewise that you might eomm u- 
nicate tO US your knowledge; and that we might all con- 
sult together upon the care we ought to hare of our chil- 
dren. And this in all 1 had to nay to you. Now it in your 
turn to aid ns with you/- counsel* in telling u% whether 
you approve or condemn the <<<<< le of annas and in ad- 

waw; i« ; what oceupat ion, and what kind of instruction 
WC inouhJ £rive our children; in a word, what, method 
you propose for the education of your own children. 

A7r. L)simaehus, I comrnend your proposal : I am very 

ready to join with you in this deliberation s sod wiD cut 
gage that Partes will be as glad is 1 ana to sot s part in 
i be conference, 
£00, Vou may be lure of that* Ninas* In my judgment, 

nil I hat Lysimachu . hah said gainst \w -. father Mid the father 

of MelesiaSj is admirably well Mid; not only against t hem, 
hut sgainst ns and all those who embark in the govern* 

ment of a htate ; for, an he ha- remarked, we too often 

neglect the education of* our children and our domestic 
aflairs, ami regard thera no more than if we bad neither 



OF VALOUR. 



257 



house nor family. Lysimachus, you have spoken well; 
but I am surprised that you should eall us to consult 
with you upon that subject, and not Socrates, our fellow- 
citizen, who bends all his thoughts to the education 
of children: pursuing the sciences that are most useful 
to them, and finding out for them the most suitable occu- 
pations. 

Lys. What do you say, Laches ? Would Socrates 
direct us in the instruction of youth ? 

Lac. I assure you he would, Lysimachus. 

Nic. And I assure you of the same: for it is not four 
days since he gave me a music-master for my son, one 
Damon, brought up by Agathocles; who, besides the 
excellences of his art, is possessed of all the other quali- 
ties that can be desired in a tutor. 

Lys. Indeed, Socrates, and you Nicias and Laches, must 
pardon this ignorance in me and others of my age ; we 
are not acquainted with young people, for we seldom 
stir abroad, by reason of our old age. But, Socrates, if 
you have any good counsel to give me, who am your coun- 
tryman, pray do it : I can say that it is your duty, for 
you are a friend of our family. Your father Sophro- 
mscus and I were comrades from our infancy; and our 
friendship lasted till his very death, without interrup- 
tion. At present, it occurs to me, that I have often 
heard these children mention the name of Socrates, of 
whom they speak much good, in their interviews among 
themselves, but I never thought of asking them if they 
spoke of Socrates the son of Sophroniscus. And now, 
pray tell me, children, is this the Socrates I have heard 
you speak of so often ? 

Aristides and Thucydides, both together. Yes, father, 
the same. 

Lys. I am infinitely glad of that. My dear Socrates, 
you keep up the reputation of your deceased father 
admirably well, who was not only very well skilled in his 
art,* but likewise a very good man. You and I must 
renew our ancient friendship, and henceforward your inte- 
rest shall be mine, and mine yours. 

Lac. You do well, Lysimachus ; do not let him go : for 
[ have seen occasions in which he maintained not only the 

* He was an engraver, 
z 2 



258 



LACHES ; OR, 



reputation of his father, but that of his country. At the 
defeat of Delium,* he retired along with me : and I can 
assure you, if all the rest had done their duty as he did, 
our city would have been admirably well supported, instead 
of meeting with so great a shock. 

Lys. This is a high encomium, Socrates; and by whom 
is it given ? By persons that are worthy to be credited in 
all things, especially upon that point for which they ap- 
plaud you. I assure you, nobody can hear your praises 
with more pleasure than I do. I am infinitely glad that 
you have purchased such a reputation, and I enlist myself 
in the number of your greatest well-wishers. And therefore 
pray come, without ceremony, to see us, and live with us : 
since you are of our family, you ought to do it. Let this 
day be the renewing of our ancient friendship ; and from 
henceforward be familiar with us and these children, to the 
end that you and they may keep our friendship as a pater- 
nal pledge. We hope you will make that use of it; and for 
our parts we will not suffer you to forget it. But to return 
to our subject : what do you say ? What think you of this 
exercise of arms? Does it deserve to be learned by young 
men ? 

Soc. Upon that point, Lysimachus, I shall endeavour to 
give you the best counsel I am able ; and shall not fail to 
put all your orders in execution. But since I am the 
youngest, and least experienced of any of you, it is but 
just that you should speak first ; that so, after I have heard 
you, I may give in my sentiments if I differ from you, and 
back them with forcible reasons. Let us hear you speak 
then, Nicias? It is your turn to speak first. 

Nic. I will not refuse to give my opinion. In my mind, 
that exercise is very proper for young people, and merits 
their application : for besides that it diverts them from 
the amusements which when unemployed they commonly 
pursue, it also inures them to labour, and of necessity ren- 
ders them more strong and vigorous. There is no better 
exercise ; none that requires more strength and dexterity : 
there is none more suitable to a person of quality than 
this, and riding the great horse ; especially to those of our 

* In this battle, Socrates saved Xenophon's life, whose horse was 
killed under him ; and Socrates being on foot, took him upon his 
back, and carried him away. 



OF VALOUR. 



259 



proiession: In regard to the wars we are already en- 
gaged in, and which are likely to come upon us, we must 
reckon those only true and good exercises, that are per- 
formed with the arms used in war ; for they are of admira- 
ble use, whether in set battles in rank and file, or single 
combat after the ranks are broken ; whether we pursue an 
enemy that rallies from time to time, or upon a retreat in 
order to get clear of an obstinate enemy, that pursues us 
with sword in hand. He who is acquainted with these 
exercises, will never be afraid of one man, or several toge- 
ther, but will still stand his ground, or get off clear. Be- 
sides, these exercises have this advantage, that they inspire 
their votaries with a passion for another and a higher pur- 
suit : for I suppose all those who give them selves to fencing, 
think of nothing but the end they proposed in going to be 
taught, namely, battles and fights ; and when engaged in 
these, are so full of ambition, and so fond of glory, that 
they carefully instruct themselves in all that belongs to the 
art of war ; and make it their business to rise by degrees 
to the highest posts in the army. It is manifest, that 
nothing is more desirable, and more worthy the care of a 
good man, than these different posts of honour, and all 
the functions of war, to which this exercise leads. To 
all these advantages we shall add one more, which is not a 
small one, it is, that this art of fencing makes men more 
valiant and more adventurous in engagements ; and if we 
reckon up every thing ; there is another advantage that is 
not to be despised, viz. that it gives men a good appearance 
and a graceful carriage. So that I am fully of opinion, Ly- 
simachus, that children should learn those exercises ; and 
have now given my reasons for thinking so. If Laches 
is of another mind, I shall be glad to hear him. 

Lac. Indeed, Nicias, he must be a bold man, who says 
that any science whatever is not worthy to be learned : for 
it is very commendable to know every thing ; and if this 
exercise of arms is a science, as its teachers allege, and as 
Nicias says; I admit that it ought to be taught. But if it is 
not a science, if the fencing-masters impose upon us their 
bravados, or if it is only an inconsiderable science, to what 
purpose should we amuse ourselves with it ? I mention 
this, because I am persuaded, that if it were a very consi- 
derable science, it would never have escaped the Lacedemo- 
nians, who spend their whole lives in inquiring after such 



260 



LACHES ; OR, 



things as may render them superior to their enemies in war. 
Nay, supposing it had hitherto escaped the Lacedemonians, * 
these fencing- masters could not have heen ignorant that of 
all the Grecians, the Lacedemonians are the most curious 
in what relates to arms; and that masters of any reputa- 
tion would have made their fortune there much better than 
elsewhere, just as tragic poets of any note do here. For 
every one that has a genius for writing tragedies comes 
straightly here with them, and does not travel from city to 
city to publish his performances. f Whereas those valiant 
champions who teach fencing, look upon Lacedemon as an 
inaccessible temple that they dare not approach ; J and ram- 
ble round about it, teaching their art to others, particularly 
to those who confess themselves inferior to all their neigh- 
bours in whatever relates to war. In a word, Lysimachus, 
I have seen a great many of those masters engaged in hot 
actions, and I know perfectly what their humour is, upon 
which it is easy to form a just estimate of their merit : It 
seems Providence has purposely so ordered it, that none of 
that profession ever acquired the least reputation in war. 
We see several of other professions, not only successful 
in the way of their business, but likewise famous in war. 
But these men are unfortunate by a peculiar sort of fata- 
lity : for this same Stesilius, who exposed himself before 
this crowd of spectators, and spoke so magnificently of 
himself ; I say, I have seen this same man make a dif- 
ferent display, against his will, upon a better occasion : 
When the ship he was in attacked a merchant-man, he fought 
with a pike-headed scythe, and all the prowess he shewed 
scarcely merits a relation ; but the success of this war- 
like stratagem, in fixing a scythe on the head of a pike, 
is worthy of attention. While the fellow was fencing with 
his new arms, they were unhappily entangled in the tack- 
ling of the enemy's ship, and stuck there. He pulled with 
all his force to get it clear, but could not obtain his end. 

* They were the most warlike people of all the Grecians, and yet 
had no fencing-masters. 

t A satirical rub upon Athens, which was as fond of tragedies as 
Lacedemon was of arms. 

$ He compares Lacedemon to the temple of the Furies, which 
none durst approach; for they had such a terrible impression of 
these goddesses, that they durst not either name them, or look upon 
them, or offer their addresses to them. These fencing-masters were 
equally afraid of Lacedemon. A noble eulogy. 



OF VALOUR. 



261 



While his ship kept close to the other, he followed it, and 
kept his hold; but when the enemy's ship steered off, and 
was going to haul him in, he suffered his pike to slip by 
degrees through his hands, till he had only hold of it by 
the small end. The enemy's crew made huzzas, upon the 
pleasant accident; at length, somebody having thrown a 
stone that just fell at his feet, he quitted his beloved arms, 
and the enemy redoubled their shouts, when they saw the 
armed sickle hanging upon the tackling of their ship like a 
trophy. It is possible that, as Xicias says, it may be a very 
considerable and useful science; but I tell you what I have 
seen: so that, as I said in the beginning, if it is a science, 
it is a useless one; and if it is none, and we are only invei- 
gled by its fine name, then it does not deserve our regard. 
In a word, those who apply themselves to that art, are 
either cowards or brave men ; if cowards, they are the 
more insolent, and their cowardice is only the more ex- 
posed : if brave, all the world has their eyes upon them ; 
and if they happen to be guilty of a false step, they must 
bear a thousand jests and railleries : for this is not an in- 
chfferent profession; it exposes them to perpetual envy ; 
and if the man that follows it, does not highly distinguish 
himself by his courage, he will be ridiculed, and has no 
possibility of avoiding it. These are my thoughts of that 
exercise : it remains that you request Socrates to give us 
his opinion, 

Lys. Pray do so, Socrates ; for we want an umpire to 
decide the difference. Had Nicias and Laches been of one 
opinion, we should have spared you the trouble : but you 
see they are directly opposite. So that now our business 
is to hear your judgment, and see which of the two you 
agree with. 

Soc. What ! Lysimachus, are you for following the 
greatest number then ? 

Lys< How can one do better ? 

Soc. And you, Melesias ? Were you to choose exercises 
to be learned by your son, would you rather be directed 
by a great number, than by one man that has been well 
educated himself, and has had excellent masters I 

Mel. For my part, Socrates, I would be directed by the 
latter. 



262 



LACHES ; OR, 



Soc. You would be more influenced by his opinion, than 
by that of us all? 

Mel. Perhaps I might. 

Soc. Because a wise judgment ought to be formed from 
knowledge, and not from the multitude? 
Mel. Without doubt. 

Soc. The first thing then that we are to enquire into, is, 
whether any of us is expert in the thing we consult about, 
or not? If any one is, we must refer ourselves to him, 
and leave the others ; if not, we must see for some such 
man elsewhere: for do you, Melesias and Lysimachus, 
imagine that this is a business of small consequence, and 
that you run but an ordinary risk ? Do not deceive your- 
selves ! the matter in hand relates to the greatest imagin- 
able good. All the happiness of families depend upon the 
education of children : and houses rise or sink according 
as their children are virtuous or vicious. 

Mel. You say well. 

Soc. So that one cannot be too cautious and prudent 
upon this occasion. 
Mel. Most certainly. 

Soc. How then should we know which of us is most 
expert and best skilled in the exercises? Should not we 
presently pitch upon him who learned them best, and fol- 
lowed them most, and had the best masters ? 

Mel. So I think. 

Soc. And before that, should we not endeavour to 
know the thing itself that we would have our children 
learn ? 

Mel. What do you mean ? 

Soc. Perhaps you will understand me better in this 
manner : we did not at first agree upon the nature of the 
thing we are consulting about, in order to know which of 
us is most dexterous at it, and was taught by the greatest 
master. 

Nic. Are not we, Socrates, considering of fencing, in 
order to know whether our children ought to learn it, or 
not? 

Soc. I do not say otherwise : but when a man advises 
about a remedy for the eyes, and wants to know whether 
he should apply it, or not ; do you think this consultation 



OF VALOUR. 



263 



relates more to the remedy than to the eyes, to which it is 
to be applied I 

Nic. It relates most to the eyes. 

Soc. Aud when a man consults what bit he should put 
upon his horse, does not the question relate more to the 
horse than to the bit I 

Nic. Yes, surely. 

Soc. In a word, as often as a man advises about a 
thing with reference to another, the direct object of the 
consultation is the thing referred to,* and not that which 
is only regarded for the sake of the other. 

Nic. It is necessarily so. 

Soc. Then we ought to examine well whether the man 
we advise with, is expert and skilled in the thing about 
which we advise. 

Nic. That is certain. 

Soc. At present we are consulting what our children 
should learn ; so that the question turns upon the children, 
and the knowledge of then mental powers is our first 
concern. 

Nic. Just so. 

Soc. And by consequence the question is, whether there 
is any of us experienced in the culture of the mind? 
who knows how to direct it, and has been taught that art 
by the best masters ? 

Lac. Did you, Socrates, never know any persons that 
have become greater proficients in some sciences and arts 
without a master, than others with all the masters that 
could be obtained for them ? 

Soc. Yes, Laches, I have known some : but though any 
of that sort of men should be proud of telling you that they 
are very skilful, you would never trust the least affair to 
them, unless you had seen them make, I will not say one, 
but several elaborate and skilful exhibitions ? 

Nic. Right, Socrates. 

Soc. Since Lysimachus and Melesias have called us to 
give our advice of the education of their children ; we are 
obliged, 0 Nicias and Laches, if we pretend to be endowed 

* For instance, when we think of purging a sick person, we 
consider of the patient before we think of the dose : and having 
first discovered the state of the patient, then we think of a proper 
medicine. 



264 



LACHES; OR, 



with the capacity that is necessary for it, to tell them what 
masters we had, that they were very good men, and that, 
having instructed several scholars, they had formed and dis- 
posed their minds to virtue. And if any of us pretends to 
have had no master, he must produce his performances, and 
instance in some either among the Athenians, or among 
foreigners, who have been benefited by his precepts. If 
we can neither name our master, nor shew our works, we 
must send our friends for advice elsewhere, and not expose 
ourselves to just reproach upon a point of so much impor- 
tance. For my part, Lysimachus and Melesias, I acknow- 
ledge I never had a master for that science, notwithstand- 
ing that from my youth I was passionately in love with it: 
but I had not money enough to reach the high fees of 
those sophists, who boasted they were the only men that 
could benefit me ; and by my own ingenuity I have not 
yet been able to find out the art. If Nicias and Laches 
have compassed it by themselves, or have learned it of 
masters, I shall not be surprised, for being richer than 
I am, they could afford to have masters ; and being older, 
they may have learned it of themselves : and upon that 
account I consider them admirably well qualified for in- 
structing a young gentleman. And besides, if they had 
not been very well assured of their own capacity, they 
would never have been so positive in determining what 
exercises are useful, and what useless to youth : so that 
I submit to them in all things. But what surprises 
me, is, that they are of two different opinions : however, 
since Laches entreated you to detain me, and oblige me to 
speak, pray let me implore you, in my turn, not to suffer 
Laches and Nicias to go, but press them to answer, by 
telling them that Socrates knows nothing of these mat- 
ters, and is unable to determine which of them is right : 
That he had no masters, and could not find out the art 
by himself. Wherefore, Nicias and Laches, pray tell 
us if ever you knew any excellent man for the education 
of youth ? Did you learn this art from any one, or did 
you find it out of yourselves ? If you learned it, pray tell 
us who was your master, and who they are that follow the 
same profession; to the end that, if the public affairs do 
not afford you so much leisure,' we may go to them, and 
by presents and caresses engage them to take care of our 



OF VALOUR. 



265 



children and yours, to prevent their reflecting dishonour 
upon their ancestors by their vices. If you found out 
this art by your own ingenuity, pray name those you have 
instructed ; who, being vicious before coming to you, 
became virtuous under your care. If you are but yet 
beginning to teach ; take care that you do not make your 
first essay upon base souls ; but upon your own children, 
and those of your best friends. Tell us then what you 
can do, and what not. This, Lysimachus, is what I 
would have you ask of them : do not let them go with- 
out giving you an answer. 

Lys. In my mind, Socrates speaks admirably well. 
Wherefore, my friends, consider of answering all these 
questions ; for you may assure yourselves that in so doing, 
you will oblige me and Melesias very much. I told you 
before, that the reason we called for your advice, was, that 
since you, as well as ourselves, have children that will 
quickly be of that age which requires a wise education, 
you might ere now have thought maturely upon it. If, 
then, you are at leisure, pray discuss the matter with So- 
crates; for, as he has well said, this is the most important 
affair of our lives. 

Nic. It seems, Lysimachus, you have no knowledge 
of Socrates, otherwise than by his father, and that you 
have never frequented his company. You never saw 
him, surely, but in his infancy, in the temples or public 
assemblies, or when his father brought him to your 
house. 

Lys. What ground have you for that supposition, 
Nicias ? 

Nic. That I perceive you are ignorant that Socrates 
looks upon everybody as his neighbour; and that he is as 
much obliged to every one who converses with him, as if 
he were his relation. Though at first he speaks only of 
indifferent things, yet at last he who converses with 
him is obliged, by the thread of his discourse, to give 
him an account of the conduct of his life, and to tell 
him how he lives, and has lived. And when Socrates 
has once brought him thus far, he does not part with 
him till he has sounded him to the bottom, and got 
an account of all his good and evil actions. I know 
it by experience. There is a necessity of passing that 

2 A 



266 



LACHES; OR, 



ordeal: I find that I myself cannot get off, and I am 
very glad of it; for I always take a singular pleasure in 
discoursing with him. It is no great harm for a man to 
be informed of his faults, and after that he will become 
more wise and prudent, if he attend to and love the ad- 
monition, and, according to Solon's maxim, is willing to 
be instructed, whatever his age, and is not foolishly per- 
suaded that old age necessarily brings wisdom along with 
it. So that it shall neither seem new nor disagreeable to 
me, if Socrates puts me to a trial. And, indeed I was 
aware from the beginning, that since he was here, it would 
not be our children, but ourselves that would be examined. 
For my part, I submit to him with all my heart. It re- 
mains that Laches should tell his sentiments. 

Lac. My sentiments are various. Sometimes I am in 
one humour, and sometimes in another. Sometimes I 
love nothing so much as discoursing, and at other times 
I cannot endure it. When I meet with a man that speaks 
well of virtue or any science, and find him a man of vera- 
city, and worthy of his profession, I am charmed with 
him, and take an inexpressible pleasure in observing the 
harmony of his words and actions. Such a man is to me the 
only excellent musician that produces a perfect concord, not 
with the harp or musical instruments, but with the sum 
total of his life. For all his actions suit with his words, 
not according to the Lydian, Phrygian, or Ionian tones, 
but according to the Dorian; which is the only one that 
deserves the name of Grecian harmony.* When such a 
man speaks, I am overjoyed and charmed; and drink in 
his words so greedily, that everybody perceives me to be 
fond of his discourses. But a man that acts the contrary, 
mortifies me most cruelly; and the more he seems to 

* The Grecians had four measures or tones which they called 
Harmonies, and multiplied by joining them with others. The 
Lydian was doleful, and proper for lamentation ; the Phrygian was 
vehement, and fit to raise the passions ; the Ionian effeminate and 
soft ; the Dorick was masculine, and so preferred by Socrates to all 
the rest. Accordingly, Aristotle, in the last chapter of his Politics, 
says, That all the world agreed that the Dorick was most manly and 
smooth, and a sort of medium between the others : upon which 
account it was more proper and suitable for children. Plato abso- 
lutely condemns the Lydian and Ionian in .the Third Book of his 
Republic. 



OF VALOUR. 



267 



speak well, the more aversion I have to him. I am not 
yet acquainted with Socrates by his words, but by his ac- 
tions I am; and think him worthy to discourse with all 
freedom upon any subject. I am therefore willing to enter 
into a conference with him, and shall be very glad if he 
will take the pains to examine me. I shall never be un- 
willing to learn; for I am of Solon's opinion, that we 
ought to be learning all our lives. I would only add a 
word to his maxim, which I wish he had added, viz. That 
we should learn of good men. In earnest, you must grant 
me this, That a teacher ought to be a good man, that I 
may not learn of him with reluct ancy, and that my dis- 
relish may not pass for stupidity and indocility. For it 
matters not to me if my master be younger than myself, 
and has not yet gained a reputation. So, Socrates, if you 
will examine and instruct me, you shall find me very docile 
and submissive. I have always had a good opinion of you 
since the day that you and I escaped a considerable dan- 
ger, and you gave such proof of your virtue. Tell me, 
then, what you please; and let not my age be any hin- 
drance. 

Soc. At least we cannot complain that you are not very 
ready to ask good counsel and follow it. 

Lys. This is our business; I call it ours, because it is 
upon our account that you are engaged in it. Wherefore, 
I beseech you for the love of these children, see, in my 
stead, what we ought to ask of Nicias and Laches, and 
join your thoughts in conference with theirs. As for me, 
my memory is almost gone, by reason of my old age. I 
forget most of the questions I designed to ask, and a 
great part of what was said. I remember nothing of 
the matter, when the principal question is crossed by 
fresh incidents. Discuss this matter among yourselves; I 
and Melesias will hear you; and after that, shall do as you 
direct us. 

Soc. Nicias and Laches, we must obey Lysimachus and 
Melesias. Perhaps it will not be improper to discuss 
the question we before proposed, viz. Whether we had mas- 
ters in this ait, or if we have formed any scholars, and ren- 
dered them better men than they were 1 But there may 
be a shorter way of compassing our end, and at the same 
time of going nearer to the source; for if we have a certain 



268 



LACHES; OR, 



knowledge of anything, that being communicated to an- 
other, will render him better, and have likewise the secret of 
communicating it to him; it is plain, not only that we know 
the thing itself, but that we know what means are to be 
employed in acquiring it.* Perhaps you do not understand 
me; but an example will illustrate my meaning. If we 
know certainly that sight communicated to the eyes, ren- 
ders them better, and are able to communicate it; it is 
certain we know what the sight is, and all that is to be 
done for procuring it. Whereas, if we do not know what 
seeing or hearing is, our advice will be to no purpose; we 
cannot pretend to be good physicians, either for the eyes 
or ears, or to furnish them with the means of seeing or 
hearing. 

Lys. You say well, Socrates. 

Soc. Have not your two friends called you, Laches, 
to advise with us, how virtue may be best implanted in the 
minds of their children ? 

Lac. They have. 

Soc. Is it not necessary then, that, in the first place, we 
should know what virtue is? for if we are ignorant of 
that, how should we be capable of prescribing means for 
acquiring it ? 

Lac. By no means, Socrates. 

Soc. Then it is presumed you know what it is ? 

Lac. Without doubt. 

Soc. But when we know a thing, cannot we tell what 
it is? 

Lac. Yes, surely. 

Soc. At present we shall not enter upon the enquiry, 
what virtue is in general : that would be too long, and too 
perplexed a task : let us content ourselves with tracing 
one of its branches, and try if we have all that is ne- 
cessary for knowing that well. This will be a shorter and 
easier enquiry. 

Lac. If you are of that mind, I am satisfied. 

Soc. But what branch of virtue shall we select ? shall 

* This is an important and very useful principle. Socrates's 
scope is, to make them sensible, that men may well know the vices 
and faults of one another, and the virtues they all want to make 
them perfect, but do not know how to communicate it. God alone 
knows our weakness and misery, and he alone can heal it. 



OF VALOUR. 



209 



it be that which seems to be the only end of fencing ; 
for the people allege, that this exercise tends directly to 

VALOUR ? 

Lac. Yes, that is the point. 

Soc. Let ns endeavour, Laches, in the first place to 
give an exact definition of valour ; and then we shall pur- 
sue the means of communicating it to these children, as 
much as possible, both by habit and by study. Say then, 
what is valour ? 

Lac. Indeed, Socrates, that is not a very difficult 
question. A valorous man is one who maintains his 
post in battle, who never turns his back, and who repulses 
the enemy. 

Soc. Very well, Laches ; but perhaps it is my faulty 
expression that occasioned your giving an answer remote 
from my question. 

Lac. What do you mean, Socrates ? 

Soc. I will tell you, if I can. A valiant man is one 
that keeps his post, and bravely attacks the enemy. 

Lac. That is what I say. 

Soc. So I say too. But as to him that fights the 
enemy upon a flight, and without keeping his post ? 
Lac. How, upon a flight ? 

Soc. In fleeing ; as the Scythians, for instance ; who 
fight as fiercely upon a retreat, as upon a pursuit : and 
as Homer says in commendation of iEneas's horses, they 
were swifter than the wind, in the field of battle, and 
knew how to escape and how to pursue an enemy. And 
does not he commend iEneas for his skill in the art of 
fleeing, when he calls them expert in retreat ? 

Lac. That is very true, Socrates; for Homer in that 
place speaks of chariots. And as for the Scythians, you 
know they had troops of cavalry ; for that was their way 
to engage with horse : but our Grecian infantry fight 
by standing their ground. 

Soc. Perhaps you will except the Lacedemonians ; for I 
have heard, in the battle of Platea, when the Lacedemo- 
nians were engaged with the Gerrophori, who had made a 
bulwark of their bucklers, and killed many of their men with 
their arrows ; that the Lacedemonians, on this occasion, 
thought it not proper to keep their post, but fled : and 
when the Persian ranks were disordered in the pursuit, 

2 a 2 



2/0 



LACHES ; OR, 



rallied and attacked the cavalry you speak of, and by that 
means gained a noble victory. 
Lac. You say true. 

Soc. And for that reason, as I told you, I occasioned 
your faulty answer by putting the question amiss. For I 
want to know what valour is in a man, that is valiant not 
only in cavalry, but in infantry, and all other sorts 
of war ; that is, not only valiant in war, but in dangers at 
sea ; in diseases, in poverty, in the management of 
public affairs; not only valorous in grief, sorrow, and 
fears, but likewise in his desires and pleasures ; a man 
that knows how to make head against his passions, 
whether by standing his ground, or fleeing. For valour 
extends to all these things. 

Lac. That is certain. 

Soc. Then all these men are valiant. One displays his 
courage by opposing his pleasures, another by restraining 
his sorrow: one controuls his desires, and another his 
fears : and upon all these occasions a man may be cowardly 
and mean-spirited. 

Lac. Without doubt. 

Soc. So I wanted to know of you, what each of these 
contraries, valour and cowardice is. To begin with valour: 
tell me, if you can, what is this quality that is always the 
same, upon all those different occasions ? Do you under- 
stand me now? 

Lac. Not perfectly. 

Soc. What I would say, is this. For instance, if I 
asked you what that swiftness is, which extends itself 
to running, playing upon instruments, speaking, learning, 
and a thousand other things. For we apply swiftness to 
the actions of the hands, feet, tongue, and mind : these 
are the principal subjects. Is it not so ? 

Lac. Yes. 

Soc. If any one asked me, what this swiftness is, that 
extends to all these different things? I would answer, 
it is a faculty that does much in a little space of time. 
For this definition agrees to the voice, to running, and all 
the other things that the word can be applied to. 

Lac. Right, Socrates ; the definition is very good. 

Soc. Define valour then after the same manner. Tell 
me what faculty this is, that is always the same in plea- 



OF VALOUR. 



271 



sores, in affliction, and in all the above mentioned cases ; 
and that never changes either its name or its nature. 

Lac. Since I must give a definition, including all the 
different species of that virtue; it seems to me to be a 
disposition of the soul always ready to suffer any thing. 

Soc. To answer my question fully, your definition must 
certainly be such. But this definition seems also defec- 
tive : for, I suppose, you do not take all the patience of 
the soul to be valour/ I see plainly you place valour in 
the number of fine things. 

Lac. Yes, without doubt; and indeed the finest that is. 

Soc. Accordingly this patience of the soul, when ac- 
companied with wisdom, is good and fine ? 

Lac. Most certainly. 

Soc. And when imprudence is its companion, is it not 
quite the contrary ? Is it not then bad and pernicious ? 
Lac. Without question. 
Soc. Do you call a pernicious thing fine ? 
Lac. God forbid, Socrates ! 

Soc. Then you will never call that sort of patience by 
the name of valour, since it is not fine; and valour is 
somewhat that is very fine. 

Lac. You say right. 

Soc. Then, according to you, a wise and prudent 
patience is wisdom ? 
Lac. So I think. 

Soc. Let us see whether this patience is only prudent in 
some things, or in every thing, whether small or great ? 
For instance : a man spends his estate very patiently and 
prudently, with a firm certainty, that his spending will 
one day procure him great riches : would you call this 
man valiant and stout ? 

Lac. I would be very loath to do that, Socrates. 

Soc. But a physician has a son or some other patient 
lying ill of an inflammation in the breast . This son teazes 
him for something to eat. The physician is so far from 
yielding to his importunity, that he patiently bears his 
complaints and his anger : Would you call this physician 
valiant? 

Lac. No more than the other. 

Soc. But as for war. Here is a man of that disposition 
of soul we now speak of. He has a mind to fight; and 



272 



LACHES; OR, 



his prudence supporting his courage, tells him he will 
quickly be relieved, and that his enemies are the weaker 
party, and that he has the advantage of the ground. This 
brave man, that is thus prudent, will you make him more 
valiant and courageous than his enemy, who stands his 
ground, notwithstanding the disadvantages he lies under, 
and that too without these considerations ? 
Lac. No, surely; the last is the bravest.* 
Soc. And, after all, the courage of the last is far less 
prudent than that of the former. 
Lac. That is true. 

Soc. Then it follows from your principle, that a good 
horseman, who in an engagement behaves himself bravely, 
and trusts to his dexterity of managing a horse, is less 
courageous than he who wants that advantage. 

Lac. Yes. 

Soc. You will say the same of an archer, a slinger, and 
all the other orders of soldiery ? 
Lac. Without doubt. 

Soc. And those, who, without being acquainted with the 
art of diving, have the courage to dive, and are the first 
who throw their heads into the waters, are, according to 
you, more bold and courageous than the expert divers ? 

Lac. Yes, certainly. 

Soc. According to your principle it must be so. 
Lac. These are my principles. 

Soc. But, after all: those artless and inexperienced men 
encounter danger much more imprudently than those who 
expose themselves with the advantage of art. 

Lac. Yes, certainly. 

Soc. But we concluded just now, that indiscreet bold- 
ness and imprudent patience, are very scandalous and per- 
nicious. 

Lac. That is true. 

Soc. And we looked upon valour to be a good and a fine 
thing. 

Lac. I grant it. 

Soc. And do you think it is well done ? 

Lac. I am not so foolish, Socrates. 

Soc. Thus, Laches, by your own principles, you and I 

* Socrates makes Laches fall into the common prejudice, that an 
imprudent and indiscreet temerity is valour. 



OF VALOUR. 



27.° 



are not upon the foot of the Dorick tone; for our actions 
do not agree with our words. If one took a view of our 
actions, I presume he would say we are men of courage. 
But if he heard our words, he would quickly change his 
sentiments. 

Lac. You say light, Socrates. 

Soc. But do you think it lit that we should continue in 
this condition ? 

Lac. No, certainly. 

Soc. Are you willing we should for a minute act con- 
formably to the definition we gave just now ? 
Lac. What definition is that ? 

Soc. That true courage or true valour is patience. If 
you please, then, let us shew our patience in carrying on 
our enquiry, that so valour may not laugh at us for pursu- 
ing her without courage; since, according to our princi- 
ples, patience is courage. 

Lac. I am willing, Socrates, and shall not at all 
flinch, though I am a novice in such disputes. But I 
must own I am out of humour and vexed that I can- 
not explain my thoughts; for I think I conceive perfectly 
what valour is. But the idea so baffles me, that I cannot 
explain it. 

Soc. But, Laches, a good huntsman ought to follow the 
animal he pursues, and not weary himself in running after 
every thing he sees. 

Lac. I admit it 

Soc. Are you willing we should call Nicias to hunt with 
us, to try if he will have any better fortune ? 
Lac. With all my heart, Socrates. 

Soc. Come then, Nicias, and help your Mends. You see 
the condition we are in, and how impossible it is for us to 
get clear of it. Pray rescue us, by shewing what valour is, 
and proving it. 

Nic. I thought all along that you defined this virtue 
amiss. How comes it to pass, Socrates, that you do not 
upon this occasion make use of what I have heard you 
speak so often and so well ? 

Soc. What is that, Nicias ? 

Nic. I have often heard you say, that a man is dextrous 
at the things he knows, but very unhappy at what he does 
not know. 



274 



LACHES; OR, 



Soc. That is very true. 

Nic. And by consequence, if a valiant man be good at 
anything, he is good at what he knows. 
Soc. Do you hear him, Laches ? 

Lac. Yes, I hear him; but I do not well understand 
what he means. 

Soc. But methinks I perceive his meaning. As I take 
it, he means that valour is a science. 

Lac, What science, Socrates ? 

Soc, Why do you not ask him ? 

Lac, I desire the same favour of him. 

Soc, Nicias, answer Laches a little, and tell him what 
science valour is in your opinion; for it is neither the 
science of playing upon the flute, nor that of playing upon 
the harp. 

Nic, No, surely. 

Soc, What is it then ? 

Lac. You ask him well, Socrates ; let him tell us, then, 
what science it is. 

Nic, I say, Laches, that it is the science of things that 
are terrible, and of those that do not surpass our strength, 
and in which one may show a steadfastness, whether it be 
in war, or in other contingencies of life.* 

Lac, A strange definition, Socrates ! 

Soc. Why do you think it so strange ? 

Lac, Why, because science and valour are two very dif- 
ferent things. 

Soc. Nicias pretends they are not. 

Lac. Yes, he pretends it, which is foolish. 

Soc. Then let us endeavour to instruct him; reproaches 
are not reasons. 

Nic. He has no design to abuse me, but he wishes that 
what I have said may be of no weight, because he himself 
has been deceived all along. 

* Nicias himself knew not all the strength of this definition; he 
understood only, that valour was the effect of experience and 
custom. For example, men who have ruu through many dangers, 
are commonly more valiant than those who have never seen any ; 
for, as they have already escaped those dangers, they believe that 
they may likewise overcome all others. This is the sentiment 
of Nicias ; but it is not that of Socrates, who, from his defini- 
tion, draws a principle far more excellent, as will be seen by what 
follows. 



OF VALOUR. 



2/0 



Lac. It is very true, and I shall die of grief, or make it 
appear that you have not spoken better than myself. 
"Without going any further, do not the physicians know 
■what there is that is dangerous in diseases ? Do the most 
valiant men know it better ? Or do you call the physi- 
cians valiant men ? 

Nic. No, surely. 

Lac. Neither do you give that name to labourers; yet 
they know what it is that is most to be feared in their 
labours. It is the same with all other tradesmen : they 
all know very well what is most terrible in their profession, 
and what it is that may give them assurance and confi- 
dence : but they are not the more valiant for that . 

Soc. What say you, Nicias, of that criticism of Laches ? 
For my part, I think there is something in it. 

Nic. It certainly has something in it, but nothing of 
truth. 

Soc. How so ? 

Nic. Because he thinks that physicians know more 
of diseases, than to say that a thing is healthful or 
unhealthful. It is very certain that they know nothing 
more of it : for, in good earnest, Laches, do you imagine 
that the physician knows whether his patient has more 
reason to be afraid of health or of sickness ? And do 
not you think that there are abundance of sick to whom 
it would be more advantageous not to be cured, than to be 
cured 1 Dare you say that it is always good to live, and 
that there are not abundance of people to whom it would 
be more advantageous to die. 

Lac. I am persuaded that there are some people who 
would be more happy to die. 

Nic. And do you think that the things that seem terri- 
ble to those who would willingly live, appear the same to 
those who had rather die. 

Lac. No, doubtless. 

Nic. And who will you be judged by on these occasions ? 
The physicians. They do not in the least see into it. 
People of other professions know nothing of the matter. 
It belongs then only to those who are skilful in the 
science of terrible things; and it is those whom I call 
valiant. 

Soc. Laches, do you understand what Nicias says ? 



275 



LACHES; OR, 



Lac. Yes, I understand that according to his reckoning 
there is none valiant but prophets : for who else but a 
prophet can know if it be more advantageous to die than 
to five ? And I would ask you, Nicias, Are you a pro- 
phet ? * If you are not, farewell to your valour. 

Nic. How then ? Do you think it is the business of a 
prophet to know himself in things that are terrible, and in 
those wherein he can shew steadfastness ? 

Lac. Without doubt, and whose business is it else ? 

Nic, Whose ! His of whom I speak, the valiant man ; 
for the business of a prophet is only to know the signs of 
things that are to happen, as of deaths, diseases, losses, 
defeats, and victories, whether it be in war or in other 
combats ; and do you think, that it is more proper for him, 
than for another man, to judge which of all those accidents 
are more or less advantageous to this man or that ? Never 
had any prophet the least thought of such a thing. 

Lac. Truly, Socrates, I cannot comprehend his mean- 
ing ; for according to his account, there is neither prophet, 
nor physician, nor any other sort of men, to whom the 
name of valiant can be applicable. This valiant person, of 
whom he has an idea, must then be God. But to tell you 
my thoughts : Nicias has not the courage to confess, that 
he knows not what he says; he only quibbles and shifts to 
conceal his confusion. You and I could have done as 
much, if we had had nothing else in view but to hide the 
contradictions we fall into. If we were before a judge, 
this conduct might perhaps be reasonable ; it is a piece 
of cunning to entangle a bad cause ; but in conversations 
like ours, to what purpose is it to endeavour to triumph by 
vain discourse ? 

Soc. Certainly that is a very ill thing : but let us see if 
Nicias does not pretend to say something to the purpose, 
and whether you do not injure him by accusing him of 
talking merely for talking' s sake. Let us desire him to 
explain his thoughts to us more fully; and if we find that 
he has reason on his side, we will be of his mind; if not, 
we will endeavour to speak better. 

* Laches jeers Nieias here in obscure terms, because of his respect 
to the diviners ; for he was a very religious man, he had a great 
respect for all diviners, and kept one always in his house. 



OF VALOUR. 



277 



Lac. Ask him yourself, Socrates, if you please ; I have 
asked questions enough of him. 

Soc. I will clo it : I will argue with him both for you 
and me, 

Lac. If you please. 

Soc. Tell me, I pray you, Nicias, or rather tell us, for I 
speak also for Laches, do you maintain that valour is the 
knowledge of things that are terrible, and of things in 
which one may testify some assurance and confidence ? 

Nic. Yes, I do maintain it. 

Soc. You maintain also, that this knowledge is not given 
to all sorts of people, seeing it is not known either to the 
physicians, or to the prophets, and yet that nobody can be 
valiant without this knowledge. Is not this what you 
said ? 

Nic. Yes, doubtless. 

Soc. Then we may apply the proverb in this case : 
" That it is not the same of every wild sow; every wild sow 
is not valiant and courageous." 

Nic. No, surely. 

Soc. It is evident from this, Nicias, that you are fully 
persuaded, that the wild sow of Crommion* was not cou- 
rageous, whatever the ancients have said of her. I do not 
tell you this in jest, but in good earnest : he who speaks 
as you do, must not of necessity admit of any courage in 
beasts, or grant, that the Hons, leopards, and boars, know 
many things which most men are ignorant of. Besides, he 
who maintains that valour is what you say it is, must also 
maintain, that Hons, bulls, harts, foxes, are born equally 
valiant with one another. 

Lac. By all that is sacred, Socrates, you speak to admi- 
ration. Tell us truly then, Nicias, do you believe that 
beasts, which are generally reckoned full of courage, are 
more understanding than we ? or dare you go against the 
common opinion, and maintain that they have not courage ? 

Nic. I tell you in a word, Laches, that I do not call 
either beast or man, or any thing whatever, that through 

* The aim of Socrates is to try Nicias, and to shake him in his 
opinion, by making him fear that his principle would hurt their 
religion : for if the wild sow of Crommion had not been valiant and 
courageous, Theseus is not so great a hero for having overcome her, 
nor Hercules for having defeated the lion of Nemea. 

2 B 



278 



LACHES ; OR, 



imprudence or ignorance fears not the things that are ter- 
rible, valiant and courageous ; but I call them fearless and 
senseless. Alas ! do you think that I call all children, 
who through imprudence, fear no danger, valiant and cou- 
rageous ? In my opinion, to be without fear, and to be 
valiant, are two very different things : there is nothing 
more rare than valour accompanied with prudence ; and 
nothing more common than boldness, audaciousness, and 
intrepidity, accompanied with imprudence ; for it is the 
property of most men and women, and of all beasts and 
children. In a word, those whom you and most people call 
valiant, I call rash and fool-hardy; and I give the name of 
valiant only to those who are prudent and wise: these 
only are the persons I mean. 

Lac. Do you see, Socrates,* how he offers incense to 
himself, as if he were the only valiant man ; for he strives 
to rob all those, who pass for such, of that glory. 

Nic. That is none of my design, Laches ; do not you 
fret yourself, I know that you and Lamachus,f are pru- 
dent and wise, if you be valiant. I say the same of many 
of our Athenians. 

Lac. Though I could answer you in your own way, 
yet I will not, lest you should accuse me of being ill- 
natured and detracting.}: 

Soc. Do not say so, Laches, I see plainly you do not 
perceive that Nicias hath learned these fine things of our 
friend Damon, and that Damon is the intimate friend 
of Prodicus, the ablest of all the sophists for those kind of 
distinctions. 

Lac. Oh, Socrates, it becomes a sophist very well to 
make ostentation of his vain subtilties ; but for a man 

* Wisdom and prudence were the true character of Nicias, who 
undertook nothing but where he saw at least an apparent safety, 
and who, by waiting for opportunities to act safely, did often let 
them slip ; which procured him the character of a cowardly man, 
although he undertook and executed things well, performing his 
part always in an admirable manner. 

t It is that Lamachus who was general of the Athenians with 
Nicias and Alcibiades in the expedition of Sicily, where he was 
killed. 

$ The Greek copy says, (< lest you should take me for a man of 
the tribe of Axionides for the people of that tribe were much 
cried down for their railing temper and ill-nature. 



OF VALOUR. 



279 



like Nicias, whom the Athenians have chosen to sit at the 
helm of the republic — 

Soc. My dear Laches, it well becomes a man who hath 
so great affairs upon his hands, to study to be more 
learned and more wise than others; wherefore I think 
that Nicias deserves to be heard, and that we ought at 
least to enquire into his reasons why he defines valour thus. 

Lac. Enquire then as much as you please, Socrates. 

Soc. It is what I am about to do ; but do not think 
that I acquit you of it, and that you shall not assist me in 
some things. Listen a little then, and take heed to what 
I am going to say. 

Lac. I shall do so, since it pleases you. 

Soc. That is so far well: now come on, Nicias; pray 
tell us, in resuming the matter from the beginning, is 
it not true, that at first we considered valour as a part 
of virtue?* 

Nic. It is true. 

Soc. Did you not answer, that valour was certainly but 
one part, and that there were other parts, which all 
together were called by the name virtue? 

Nic. How could I say otherwise? 

Soc. You say then as I do : for, besides valour, I ac- 
knowledge there are other parts of virtue, as temperance, 
justice, and many others; do not you also acknowledge 
them ? 

Nic. Doubtless I do. 

Soc. That is good; we are agreed upon this point; let 
us go then to those things which we call terrible, and 
wherein you say a man may shew some assurance and 
confidence ; let us examine them well, lest it happen that 
you understand them one way, and we another; we are 
going to tell you what we think of them. If you do not 
agree with us, you will correct us. We believe the things 
which you call terrible, are such as inspire people with 
fear and terror ; and that those wherein you say we may 
shew some assurance, are such as do not inspire us with 
that fear. Now those that cause fear, are neither things 
that have already happened, nor things that actually 
happen, but such as we expect : for fear is only the 

* Socrates would prove, that virtue being one, he, who has not all 
the parts that compose it, cannot boast of being virtuous. 



280 



LACHES ; OR, 



expectation of an evil to come. Are you not of this 
opinion, Laches ? 
Lac. Yes, perfectly. 

Soc. This then is our opinion, Nicias. By those 
things that are terrible, we understand the evils to come ; 
and by the things wherein one may shew some assurance, 
we understand those things which are also to come, and 
which appear good, or at least do not appear ill. Do you 
admit our definition, or not ? 

Nic. Yes, I admit it. 

Soc. Then the knowledge of those things, is what 
you call valour ? 
Nic. Yes, it is. 

Soc. Let us go to a third point, and see if we can agree 
upon that also. 

Nic. What is that ? 

Soc. You shall hear presently. We say, (that is, 
Laches and I) that in all things science never differs 
from itself ; * it is not one thing, as things past, to know 
how they passed ; another, as to the things present, to 
know how they are, and how they happen ; and another 
upon the things to come, to know how they will be ; but 
it is always the same : for example, as to health, let the 
time be what it will, Physic never differs from itself, it is 
always the same art that judges of it, and that sees 
what has been, what is, and what will be healthful or 
unhealthful. Husbandry in the same manner judges of 
what has come, of what is now come, and of what will 
come. And as to war, you can very well testify, and will 
be believed, that the art of a General extends itself to all, 
to what is past, what is present, and what is to come ; 
that he has no occasion for the art of Divination, but that 
on the contrary has it at command, as knowing what 

* Socrates would make Nicias understand, that in defining valour 
to be the knowledge of things that are terrible, that is to say, of 
evils to come, he has not been large enough in his definition ; for 
knowledge extending itself to what is past, what is present, and 
what is to come, valour must have all that extent, if it be truly a 
science. Then we must say, that it is the knowledge of all the evil 
and of all the good that hath been, that is, and that shall be ; for 
valour ought no less to judge of what has been, and of what is, 
than of what will be. But of what use is all this : that Socrates 
will make plain by and by. 



OF VALOUR. 



281 



happens, and what ought to happen. Is not the law 
itself express in that ? For it commands not that the 
diviner shall command the general, but that the general 
shall command the diviner.* Is not this what we say, 
Laches ? 

Lac. Yes certainly, Socrates. 

Soc. And you, Nicias, do you also say as we do, and do 
you agree, that knowledge, being always the same, judges 
equally of what is past, present, and to come ? 

Nic. I say as you say ; for I think it cannot be other- 
wise. 

Soc. You admit then, most excellent Nicias, that valour 
is the knowledge of things that are terrible, and of those 
that are not so ? Is not that what you say ? 

Nic. Yes. 

Soc. Have we not agreed, that those things that are 
terrible, are evils to come, and those things that are not 
terrible, and in which we can shew some assurance, is some 
good that we expect. 

Nic. We are agreed upon it . 

Soc. And that knowledge, does not extend itself only to 
what is to come, but also to things present, and to what 
is past. 

Nic. I agree to it. 

Soc. Then it is not true, that valour is only the know- 
ledge of things that are terrible, and of those that are not 
terrible ; for it does not only know the good and the evil 
that is to come, but its jurisdiction extends as far as that 
of other sciences, and it also judges of what is past, and 
of what is present, and, in a word, of all things, whether 
they be near at hand, or at a distance. 

Nic. That seems to be true. 

Soc. Then you have only defined to us the third part of 
valour, but we desired you to give us a full definition of 
it : at present it seems to me, that, according to your prin- 
ciple, it is the knowledge not only of things that are 
terrible and not terrible, f but also of almost all the good 

* If the diviner commanded the general, he would then be gene- 
ral himself. 

t Socrates will have us understand, that valour puts us in a con- 
dition to attract the good, and to avoid the evil that may happen to 
us, on the part of man and on the part of God ; for it may serve to 
2b2 



282 



LACHES; OR, 



and all the evil, at what distance soever they be from us, 
before or after. Have you then changed your opinion, 
Nicias ? what do you say ? 

Nic. It appears to me, that valour has all the extent 
you claim for it ? 

Soc. That being granted, do you think that a valiant man 
wants any part of virtue, if he knows all the good and all 
the evils that have been, that are, and that may be ? and 
do you believe, that such a man can want temperance, 
justice, and sanctity ? he to whom alone it belongs to use 
a prudent precaution against all the evils that may happen 
to him on the part of God, and to put himself in a con- 
dition to draw from thence all the good that can be ex- 
pected, seeing he knows how he ought to behave himself 
both towards man and towards God. 

Nic. What you say, Socrates, seems to have something 
in it. 

Soc. Valour then is not a part of virtue, but is virtue in 
ail its parts ? 

Nic. So it seems. 

Soc. Yet we said, that it was but a part of it. 
Nic. We did so. 

Soc. And what we said then does not now appear to be 
true. 

Nic. I admit it. 

Soc. And consequently, Nicias, we have not yet found 
out what valour is. 

Nic. It seems so, Socrates.* 

Lac. Yet I should have thought, my dear Nicias, by the 
contempt you showed me, when I was answering So- 
crates, that you would have found it out better than 

correct what is past, to dispose well of what is present, and to use 
wise precautions against what is to come. It is so solid a principle, 
that nothing can shake it. 

* Nicias does not comprehend that which Socrates makes him 
almost touch with his finger, that virtue cannot be divided, and that 
each of its parts is virtue entire. Valour is not without temperance, 
sanctity, and justice, and there is not one of these without valour. 
But how comes it that Nicias and Laches do not understand this 
language ? It is because they were used to the unhappy distinctions 
of sophists, who had filled their minds with their false notions, and 
who had ruined virtue, by dividing and cutting it in pieces. This 
wiil be explained more at large in the following dialogue. 



OF VALOUR. 



283 



another: and I had great hopes that, with the assistance 
of Damon's high wisdom, you would have accomplished it 
very well. 

37c. Cheer up, Laches, that is admirable. You think it 
nothing that you appeared very ignorant of what relates to 
valour, provided I appear as ignorant as yourself ; you re- 
gard nothing but that; and you believe yourself no way 
blameable, when you have me for a companion in the ignor- 
ance which is so scandalous to men of quality : but that is 
the humour of men, they never look to themselves, but al- 
ways to others. For my part, I think I am answered in- 
differently well. If I am deceived in any thing, I do not 
pretend to be infallible, I shall undeceive myself, by taking 
instruction, whether it be from Damon, whom you would 
so willingly ridicule, or from any others : and when I am 
well instructed, I will communicate my knowledge to you; 
for I am not envious, and you seem to me to have great 
need of instruction. 

Lac. And for you, Nicias, if we may believe you, you 
will suddenly be the eighth wise man : In the mean time, 
for all this fine reasoning, I advise Lysimachus and Mele- 
sias to get rid of us and our good counsels for the educa- 
tion of their children, and fix only upon Socrates ; as for 
my part, if my children were old enough, I should at once 
do so. 

Nic. Oh ! as for that I agree with you. If Socrates will 
take care of our children, we need not look out for another 
master, and I am ready to give him my son, if he will be 
so good as to take charge of him : but always, when I 
speak to him of it, he recommends me to other masters, 
and refuses me his assistance. Try then, Lysimachus, if 
you can have any more power over him, and if he will have 
so much complaisance for you. 

Lys. It would be an act of justice. For my part, I could 
entrust to him what I would not do to many others.* 
What do you say then, Socrates ? will you suffer yourself 
to be prevailed upon, and will you take charge of these 
children to make them virtuous I 

* This passage must not be translated as Des Serres translated it. 
"I would give him more." Lysimachus had no thoughts of speaking 
of a salary; that would have offended Socrates, who did not teach 
for money; nor does the Greek expression bear more than I have said. 



284 



LACHES ; OR, OF VALOUR. 



Soc. He must be a very strange and cruel man that will 
not contribute to make children as honest as they can be. 
For my part, if in the conversation we have now had to- 
gether, I had appeared more learned, and the rest more 
ignorant, I would have thought you had reason to choose 
me preferably to others : but you see very well, that we 
labour all under the same uncertainty and perplexity. 
Then why should I be preferred? I think that neither 
one nor the other of us deserves preference : and, if it be 
so, consider if I am not about to give you good advice : I 
am of opinion, that we should all seek the best master, 
first for ourselves, and then for these children, and for that 
end should spare no expense, nor any thing else in the 
world : for I shall never advise our remaining in the state 
wherein we now are. If any body derides us for going 
still to school at these years, we will defend ourselves by 
the authority of Homer, who says, that it is very bad for 
the poor to be shame-faced.* And thus, by laughing at all 
they can say, we shall take care, not only of ourselves, 
but of these children. 

Lys. That counsel, Socrates, pleases me infinitely well ; 
and for my part, the older I am, the more desire I shall 
have to instruct myself at the same time with our children. 
Do then as you have said, come to-morrow morning early 
to my house ; do not fail therein, I pray you, that we may 
advise how to put in practice what we have resolved upon; 
it is time that this conversation should end. 

Soc. I will not fail therein, Lysimachus ; I will be with 
you to-morrow morning very early, if it please God. 



* In the 17th book of his Odyss. 



THE 

ARGUMENT OF THE RIVALS. 



This dialogue is entitled, The Rivals; for the ancient, 
quote it by this name. It is moral, and treats of Phi- 
losophy. Socrates disputes here against two errors pre- 
valent among the young people of his time : some mis- 
understanding a passage of Solon, fancied that philosophy 
consisted in knowing all the sciences. And others Lettered 
that to deserve the name of Philosopher, a superficial 
knowledge of arts and sciences was sufficient. All that 
they desired, was to acquire the reputation of universal 
scholars who could judge of every thing. Socrates argues 
very solidly against those two principles. He overthrows 
the latter, in making it appear that there is nothing more 
ridiculous than to fancy the philosopher to be a superficial 
man, inferior to masters in each science, and consequently 
fit for none. And he refutes the first, by insinuating that 
as too much food hurts the body, so too great a heap of 
science and knowledge hurts the soul ; whose health, like 
that of the body, proceeds from a just measure of food 
that is given it. The most skilful is not always he who 
knows most, but he who knows well the things that are 
necessary. MTrich puts me in mind of a fine saying of one 
of the most learned men of this age, and whose works are 
universally known and admired : he said,* That he should 
have been as ignorant as many others, if he had read as 
much as they. 

There are millions of things useless to lead us to true 
philosophy, and which instead of advancing, retard our 
progress. Philosophy is something greater than arts, and 
more admirable than that which is commonly called the 
sciences ; for nothing less than the knowledge of things 
divine and human, can dispose us to submit to the first, 



* Mr. Le Fevre. 



286 



THE RIVALS. 



and to guide and govern others by the rules of prudence 
and justice ; so that we may be useful to our neighbours 
and to ourselves, in opposing vice, and making virtue to 
grow and nourish. It is by this that one friend gives good 
advice to another ; by this a magistrate executes justice ; 
by this the master of a family governs his house : and, in 
a word, by this a king governs his people. These are the 
truths that Socrates teaches in this short conversation, 
which is very valuable. One would say, that he is Solo- 
mon's disciple, and that he had heard what wisdom spoke 
from his mouth : " To me belong counsel, equity, prudence, 
and strength ; it is by me that kings reign, and that law- 
givers establish laws ; it is by me that princes command, 
and that the powers of the earth decree justice." 



THE RIVALS. 

Socrates. I went the other day into the school of 
Denis, who teacheth learning. I found there some of the 
handsomest young people, and of the best families of the 
city. Above all, I observed two of them disputing to- 
gether, but could not understand the subject of their dis- 
pute ; it seemed to me to be upon some points of the 
doctrine of Anaxagoras or Oenopidas, for they were stoop- 
ing, drawing circles, and marking out certain turnings and 
motions of the heavens with wonderful attention; curious to 
know what it was, I addressed myself to a young man who 
sat by me, a friend of one of those who were disputing 
together, and asked him what occasioned this great atten- 
tion ? Is the subject of the discourse so great, said I, as 
to require such a serious application. 

Yes, answered he. They are talking of heavenly things, 
but with all their philosophy they only speak folly. 

Surprised at the answer, How, said I, my friend, do you 
think it a foolish thing to be a philosopher ? How comes 
it that you speak so harshly ? Another young man that 
was seated by him, and had heard my question, said to me, 
In truth, Socrates, you will not find your account in apply- 
ing yourself to that man ; and in asking his opinion of 



THE RIVALS. 



287 



philosophy : do not you know that he has spent all his 
life in eating, sleeping, and in bodily exercises ? Can you 
expect any other answer from him, unless it were, that 
there is nothing more shameful nor more foolish than phi- 
losophy ? He who spoke to me thus, had always applied 
himself to sciences ; whereas the other had applied him- 
self wholly to exercises. 

I thought it convenient to let alone that champion who 
had neglected the mind, only to exercise the body, and to 
keep to his rival, who pretended to be more able. And that 
I might the better draw from him what I desired, I said, 
What I asked at first, I asked of you both in common. 
But if you thirik you are better able to answer me than 
he, I will apply myself only to you* Say then, do you 
think that it is a fine thing to be a philosopher ? or do 
you believe the contrary ? The two disputants, who were 
near us, gave over their dispute, and drawing nearer seemed 
resolved to hear us with a deep silence. 

He to whom I spoke did not fail to answer me, and with 
some sort of assurance. For my part, Socrates, if I 
thought it was a shame to be a philosopher, I should not 
think myself a man, and whosoever has that thought, I 
have altogether as bad an opinion of him. 

Then it is a fine thing, answered I, to be a philosopher? 
Yes, assuredly, said he. But, answered I, do you think it 
possible for one to decide whether a thing be handsome or 
ugly, unless he knows it before ? Do you know what 
it is to be a philosopher ? Without doubt, said he, I 
know it. Then I asked him, what it was ? 

It is nothing else, answered he, than what Solon said : 
" In making myself old, I learn an infinity of things." 
For he who would be a philosopher ought to learn some- 
thing every day of his life, both in his youth and in his 
old age, to the end that he may know all that can be 
known. 

At first I considered that he had said something, but 
having paused a little upon it, I asked him if he held 
that philosophy was nothing else but Polymathy, that 
is to say, a heap or confused mass of all sciences ? He 
told me, it was nothing more. But, said I, do you 
think that philosophy is only a fine thing, or do you be- 
lieve it also a good thing ? I believe it to be very good, 



288 



THE RIVALS. 



answered he. Do you think that good is particular to 
philosophy, continued I, or do you find it in other 
things? For example, do you think the love of exercises 
is as good, as it is fine, or are you of opinion that it is 
neither fine nor good. In my opinion, answered he, 
jesting merrily; for you, the love of exercise is very fine 
and very good ; but as for him, speaking of his rival, it is 
neither the one nor the other. And do you believe, said 
I, that the love of exercise consists in having a mind to 
do all exercises ? Without doubt, said he ; as the love of 
wisdom, that is to say, philosophy, consists in having a 
mind to know all things. But, I asked him, do you 
think that those who apply themselves to exercise have 
any other aim than that of the health of their body ? No, 
without doubt, said he, they propose to themselves no 
other end. And consequently, said I, is it not the great 
number of exercises that makes people enjoy health? 

Would it be possible, answered he, that one could 
be in good health by applying himself only to a few ex- 
ercises ? 

Upon that I thought of stirring up my champion a 
little, that he might come to my assistance with the ex- 
perience he had in exercises : then directing my discourse 
to him, why are you silent, said I, when you hear your 
rival speak of your art ? Do you also believe that it is the 
great number of exercises that cause health? Or, on the 
other hand, do you think that it is caused by the use of 
such of them as you shall think fit, and by neither exer- 
cising yourself too much nor too little? 

For my part, Socrates, he answered, I am still per- 
suaded, as I have always been, that there is nothing more 
true than what the common proverb says, that moderate 
exercise causes good health : is not this a fine proof of it ? 
That poor man with his application to study, and his de- 
sire to know every thing, see how he is ; he has lost his 
appetite and does not sleep: he is as stiff as a stake and 
as dry as a match. 

At these words the two young men began to laugh, 
and our philosopher blushed. 

Seeing his confusion, I turned towards him: What do 
you pretend to then, said I ? Do not you confess that it 
is neither the great nor the small number of exercises, 



THE RIVALS. 



289 



that cause health; but moderate exercise, and keeping 
directly in the middle way ? Will you resist this ? 

If I had to do with him only, said he, I would make my 
part good, and I find myself strong enough to prove to 
him what I have advanced, even though much less proba- 
ble; he is far from being a dangerous enemy. But with 
you, Socrates, I will not dispute against my opinion. I 
confess then, that it is not the great number of exercises, 
but moderate exercise that causes health. 

Is it not the same with food, said I ? He agreed to it; 
and I made him confess the same/ as to all other things 
that relate to the body: that it was the just medium that 
was useful, and in no wise the too much, or too little. 
And as to what relates to the soul, said I, is it the quan- 
tity of food that is given it which is useful, or is it only a 
just measure ? 

It is the just measure, said he. 

But, continued I, are not sciences of the number of 
those foods of the soul ? He acknowledged it. And 
consequently, said I, it is not the great number 
of sciences that nourish the soul, but the just mea- 
sure, which is equally distant from too much and too 
little ? 

He acquiesced in it. 

To whom then should we reasonably address ourselves, 
continued I, to know exactly what is the just measure 
of food and exercise that is useful for the body ? We all 
agreed that it must be to a physician, or to a master 
of exercises. And as to sowing of seed, to whom should 
we apply ourselves to know that just measure ? To a 
husbandman without doubt. And as to other sciences, I 
added, whom shall we consult to know the just medium 
that must be kept in sowing or planting them in the 
soul ? Upon that, we found ourselves all three equally 
full of doubts and uncertainties. Seeing we cannot over- 
come this difficulty, I said smiling, shall we call those 
two studious youths to our assistance, or shall we be 
ashamed to call them, as Homer says of Penelope's lovers,* 

* In the 21st Book of the Odyss. v. 285. the lovers of Penelope 
openly testify the fear they were in that the beggar, who was not 
yet known to be Ulysses, should bend the bow, whereof Penelope 
was to be the reward. 

2 c 



290 



THE RIVALS. 



who not being able to bend the bow, would not allow 
that 'any other should do it ? 

When I saw that they despaired of finding what we 
sought for, I took another method. What sciences, said 
I, shall we fix upon that a philosopher ought to learn ? 
For we have agreed that he ought not to learn them all, 
nor even the greater part. 

Our learned man, answering, said they ought to be the 
finest, the most agreeable, and those that could do him 
the greatest honour ; and that nothing could do him more 
honour than to seem to understand all the arts, or at 
least the most considerable ; and that thus a philosopher 
ought to learn all the arts that were worthy of an honest 
man's knowledge; not only those that depend upon the 
understanding, but those also that depend upon handi- 
craft. 

You mean, continued I, for example, the joiner's trade : 
one may have a very able joiner for five or six marks. 
That is a trade that depends upon manual labour. And 
the art of architecture depends on the understanding. 
But you cannot have an architect for ten thousand 
drachms,* for there are few among the Greeks. Are not 
these the sort of arts you mean ? When he had an- 
swered me ; I asked him, if he did not think it impossible 
that a man could learn two arts perfectly; and much more 
learn a great number, and those the most difficult ? 

Upon that, he answered: do not you understand me, 
Socrates ? It i8 not my meaning that a philosopher 
should know those arts as perfectly as the masters, who 
practise them ; it is sufficient that he knows them like a 
gentleman, so as to understand what those masters say 
better than the vulgar sort of men ; and also be able to 
give his opinion, to the end that he may make it appear, 
that he has a very fine and delicate taste of all that is said 
or done in relation to those arts. 

And I, still doubting what his meaning was, said, see 
I pray you, if I apprehend your idea of a philosopher ; 
you pretend that a philosopher should be the same as the 
Pentathle or champion, who does five sorts of exercises in 
the academy with the runner or the wrestler; for he is over- 

* For 100 crowns. Architects were very scarce in Greece in So- 
crates's time. 



THE RIVALS. 



291 



come by all those champions in the exercises that are 
proper to each, and holds but the second rank after them ; 
whilst he is above all the other champions who enter the 
list against him. Perhaps that is the effect which you 
pretend philosophy produces upon those who follow it ; 
they are truly below masters in the knowledge of every art, 
but they are superior to all other men who pretend to 
judge of them ; so that, according to you, we must 
conceive a philosopher, as a man who in every thing 
is below the master that professes that thing. This, I 
believe, is the idea you would give of a philosopher. 

Very well, Socrates, said he, you have admirably well 
comprehended my meaning, and there is nothing more 
just than your comparison ; for the philosopher is a man 
who does not keep to one thing only like a slave, so as to 
neglect all others : as tradesmen do, in order to carry it to 
the last perfection, but he applies himself indifferently 
to all. 

After this answer, as if I still desired to know his 
meaning more clearly, I asked him if he believed that able 
men were useful or useless. 

I believe them to be very useful, Socrates, answered 
he. 

If the able are very useful, replied I, the unable are 
very useless. 

He agreed to that. 

But, said I, are the philosophers useful or not ? 

They are very useful, answered he. 

Let us see then, replied I, if you say true, and let us 
examine how it can be that those philosophers, who hold 
only the second rank in any thing whatever, should be so 
useful ; for by what you just now said, it is clear that the 
philosopher is inferior to tradesmen in all the arts which 
they profess. 

He agrees to it. 

Now, said I, let us see, if you or any of your friends 
were sick ; tell me, I pray you, would you call a philo- 
sopher, that inferior man, or would you send for a phy- 
sician to recover your health, or that of your friend ? 

For my part, I woidd send for both, answered he. 

Ah ! do not tell me that, answered I, you must choose 
which of them you woidd rather call. 



292 



THE RIVALS. 



If you take it that way, said he, I think no one would 
hesitate, hut would much rather call the physician. 

And if you were in the middle of the sea, tossed with 
a furious tempest, to whom would you abandon the 
conduct of your ship, to the philosopher, or to the 
pilot ? 

To the pilot, without doubt, said he. 

Thus then, both in storm and in sickness, and in all 
other things, while the artist or the master of every one 
of those things is present, is not the philosopher very 
useless ? Would he not be, as it were, a dumb person ? 

So it seems, answered he. 

And consequently, replied I, the philosopher is a very 
useless man : for we have artists in every thing, and we 
have agreed that the able are only useful, and that others 
are not so. He was obliged to agree to it. Shall I pre- 
sume to ask you some other things, said I, and will not 
you think me rude to ask so many questions ? 

Ask me what you think fit, said he. 

I want nothing more than that we should settle what 
we have already agreed on. Have we not agreed on the 
one side, that philosophy is a fine thing ; that there are 
philosophers ; that philosophers are able men ; that able 
men are useful ; and that unable men are useless ; and on 
the other hand, we have agreed that philosophers are 
useless, when we have people at hand that are masters 
of every particular profession. Is not that what we have 
agreed to ? 

It is so, answered he. 

And consequently, seeing philosophy, according to you, 
is only the knowledge of all arts. Whilst arts shall 
flourish among men, the philosophers will not have any 
lustre among them; on the contrary, they will be al- 
together useless. But, believe me, the philosophers are 
not what we have fancied ; and to be a philosopher is not 
to meddle with all arts, and to spend one's life in shops 
stooping and working like a slave. Neither is it to learn 
many things : it is something more sublime and noble. 
For such an application is shameful, and those who take it 
upon them are only called mechanics and mean trades- 
men. The better to see, if I speak true, answer me 
further I pray you; who are those that can discipline 



THE RIVALS. 



293 



a horse well ? Are not they such as can make him bet- 
ter? 
Yes. 

And is it not the same with dogs ? 
Yes. 

Thus one and the same art makes them both better ? 
Yes. 

But that art which disciplines them, and makes them 
better, is it the same by which we know those that are 
bad ? Or is it another ? 

No, said he, it is the same. 

Will you say the same thing of men, replied I ? The 
art which makes them better, is it the same with that 
which reclaims them, and which knows those that are 
good, and those that are bad ? 

It is the same, said he. 

Does the art which judges of many, judge also of one, 
and that which judges of one, does it also judge of 
many ? 

Yes. 

Is it the same, said I, of horses, and of all other 
animals ? He agrees to it. But, say I, what do you call 
that science or art which chastises and reclaims the 
wicked that are in cities, and who violate the laws ? Is 
it not judicature ? And is not this art that which you 
call justice ? 

Without doubt, answered he. 

Thus, said I, that art which serves the judges to correct 
the wicked, serves also to make them know who are 
wicked and who are good ? 

Assuredly. 

And the judge who knows one of them, may also know 
more ; and he .who cannot know many of them, cannot 
know one ? Is it not so ? 

I confess it, said he. 

Is it not also true, said I, that a horse which knows not 
the other horses that are good or bad s does not know what 
he is himself ? and I say as much of all other animals. 

He agreed to it. 

Then, added I, a man who knows not men, whether 
they be good or bad, is he not also ignorant of himself, 
though he be a man ? 



294 



THE RIVALS. 



It is most true, said he. 

Now not to know one's self, is it to be wise, or to be 
foolish ? 

To be foolish. 

And consequently, continued I, to know one's self is to be 
wise. Thus the precept that is written upon the gate of 
the temple of Belphos, Knoiv thyself, exhorts us to apply 
ourselves to wisdom and justice. It is the same art that 
teacheth us to chastise and reform the wicked: By the 
rules of wisdom we learn to know them, and ourselves also. 

That seems very true, said he. 

And consequently, say I, justice and wisdom are but 
the same thing. And that which makes cities well go- 
verned, is the just punishment of the wicked. Is not 
that the occasion of good government ? 

He agreed to it. 

When a man, say I, governs a state well, what name 
is given to that man ? Is he not called king ? 
Without doubt. 

Then he governs by the royal art, by the art of kings ; 
and is not that the same with those we just spoke of ? 
So it would seem. 

When a private man governs his house well, what name 
is given to him ? Is he not called a good steward, or 
good master ? 

Yes. 

By what art does he govern his house well ? Is it not 
by the art of justice ? 
Certainly. 

Then it follows that king, politician, steward, master, 
just, and wise, are but one and the same thing ; and that 
royalty, policy, economy, wisdom and justice, are but one 
and the same art ? 

He agreed to it. 

What then, continued I, shall a philosopher be ashamed 
when a physician shall speak before him of distempers, 
or others shall speak of their arts ; I say, shall he be 
ashamed that he does not understand what they say, and 
that he cannot give his advice ? So also when a king, a 
magistrate, a politician, an economist, shall speak of their 
art, he should not be ashamed that he cannot understand 
them, nor say any thing of his own head. 



THE RIVALS. 



295 



But would it not oe shameful, Socrates, said he to 
me, not to be able to say any thing upon such great 
and important things I 

I continued, Shall we then agree, that upon these same 
things the philosopher should be as the Pentathle, whom 
we just now spoke of, that is to say, always below the 
masters ; so that he will always be useless when those 
masters are present ? Or shall we rather say, that he 
ought to be master himself, that he may not be of the 
second rank, and may not give his house to the conduct 
of another, but that he may manage it himself in the 
rules of wisdom and justice ? 

He agreed with me. 

In fine, said I : If his friends should abandon them- 
selves to his conduct, or his city call him to the office 
of the magistracy, or should order him to be arbitrator 
upon public or private affairs, would it not be a shame for 
him to be only of the second or third rank, instead of 
being the head , ? 

So I think, said he. 

Then indeed ! my clear philosophy wants much of being 
a love of all sciences, or an application to all arts. At 
these words, our learned man being confounded, knew 
not what to answer, and his rival, the master of exercises, 
assured me that 1 was right. All the rest likewise 
submitted to the same proofs. 



296 



THE 

INTRODUCTION TO PROTAGORAS. 



After Plato had, in a foregoing dialogue, given a 
specimen of the false notions that prevailed in his time, 
and that had infected the chief persons of the Republic, 
he here discovers their authors, and attacks them with 
great force. He introduces Socrates disputing with Prota- 
goras, who was the most coxisiderable of all the sophists, 
and who, by the art of poisoning men's minds, had ac- 
quired great reputation and much wealth. 

At first he shews, with a natural simplicity, the venera- 
tion men had throughout Greece for those impostors. They 
were followed wherever they went, and they no sooner 
arrived in a city, than the news of it was everywhere spread 
abroad ; people flocked to them with all possible eager- 
ness, and their houses were filled betimes in the morning. 
Men that were so followed, could not be without some sort 
of merit, and particularly in so discerning an age. It is 
also evident, that Protagoras was a man of great wit, and 
expressed himself with wonderful ease. What could not 
such qualities do, especially when supported by much pre- 
sumption, which rarely fails to accompany them? In- 
stances of it are seen daily, so that it is needless to cite 
them. Who is it that goes to examine whether such per- 
sons advance false maxims ? Who is it that is able to 
distinguish the false gloss of opinion from the true light of 
knowledge ? They speak agreeably ; they flatter our pas- 
sions and prejudices ; they promise us knowledge and 
virtue, and fill us with a high opinion of ourselves. What 
needs there more to make them popular ? 

This was the profession of the sophists. As nothing is 
more opposite to that spirit of error than true philosophy, 
Socrates was ever opposed to those false teachers; and 
Plato, who trod in his footsteps, could not mortify them 
more than by preserving the memory of all the disputes 



THE INTRODUCTION TO PROTAGORAS. 297 

which that wise man had with them, and of all the rail- 
lery put upon them. This is what he does in several 
Dialogues. 

I have placed the present Dialogue after Laches, because 
it is a natural continuation of it ; for here is examined 
that famous question, if virtue can be taught ? and what 
valour is, properly speaking ? 

Nothing is more natural than the plan of this Dialogue, 
and nothing more solid than the manner in which it is 
performed. 

A young man an admirer of the Sophists, goes to So- 
crates before the break of day, to request him to conduct 
him to Protagoras, who was just arrived at Athens. So- 
crates agrees. They go to the house of Callias, where he 
lodged ; and Callias was one of the chiefs of the Re- 
public. 

They find Protagoras walking in the midst of a crowd 
of Athenians and foreigners, who listened to him as an 
oracle. Prodicus of Ceos and Hippias of Elis, two of the 
greatest Sophists of the age, were also there. And there- 
fore the victory which Socrates obtains in this famous 
dispute, ought to be looked upon as the defeat of the 
whole body of Sophists, who assisted therein by their 
leaders. 

At first, Protagoras seems to be an admirable man ; to 
prove that virtue can be taught, he tells a very ingenious 
story, and it must be confessed, that he gives this opinion 
the most specious colours that could be, he omits nothing 
that can be said, and what he says is now every day re- 
peated by people who are far from thinking themselves 
sophists. 

Socrates confutes him with a dexterity that cannot be 
sufficiently praised ; and by his way of treating them, he 
teaches us, that at all times, when one has to do with that 
sort of people, the true secret to get the depth of them, 
is not to suffer them to speak so much as they would, in 
order to build up their chimerical systems ; for thus they 
elude all your arguments, and escape from you at last by 
their long discourses. You must then oblige them to 
answer positively, and without rambling, to all you ask 
them : with this precaution the dispute will soon be 
at an end. The man, who when suffered to harargue, 



298 



THE INTRODUCTION TO PROTAGORAS. 



has many times confounded every body : seems to be weak- 
ness itself, when he is confined to the limits of a regular 
dispute. In short, it is seen that Protagoras had nothing 
but confused notions, such as he had collected by desultory 
reading, and that instead of knowledge, he had nothing 
but a monstrous heap of opinions, which when compared, 
contradict and destroy one another. 

The aim of Socrates, in this dialogue, is not to confound 
and triumph over the Sophists, he has a nobler object in 
view ; he would divert the Athenians from the admiration 
of such learned trifling, and teach them important truths, 
the ignorance of which is the only source of all the evils 
that happen to men. 

I shall not enter upon the particular beauties of this 
Dialogue, which consist in the variety, and in the liveliness 
of the characters ; in the mirth and in the pleasant hu- 
mour of Socrates, in the simplicity and nobleness of the 
narratives, and in the knowledge of antiquity therein dis- 
covered : these beauties are perceptible enough. 

But I cannot but relate a passage here which seems to 
me very remarkable, and which Socrates only touches 
cursorily, without insisting upon it, as finding it too 
sublime for those with whom he conversed. It is when he 
says, That even though the pleasures of the world were 
not attended with any kind of evil in this life, yet they 
would be no less bad, because they cause men to rejoice ; 
and to rejoice in vice, is the most deplorable of all 
conditions. 

We must not finish this argument without speaking 
of the date of this Dialogue, with respect to which Athe- 
naeus accuses Plato of having committed very consider- 
able faults in chronology. The whole strength of his 
criticism consists in this. Plato tells us, that this dispute 
of Socrates with Protagoras happened the year after the 
poet Pherecrates's play, called the Savages, was acted. 
This play was acted in the time of the Archon Aristion, in 
the 4th year of the 89th Olympiad. The true time then 
of this Dialogue, according to Plato, is in the year follow- 
ing ; that is to say, the first year of the 90th Olympiad, 
in the time of the Archon Astyphilus. Yet there are two 
things that contradict this date. 

The first is, that from a passage in a play of Eupolis's 



THE INTRODUCTION TO PROTAGORAS. 299 

which was acted a year before that of Pherecrates, it 
appears that Protagoras was then at Athens- : now Plato 
says positively, that in the time of this Dialogue, that is to 
say, the first year of the 90th Olympiad, Protagoras 
arrived at Athens but three days before. 

The second is, that Hippias of Elis was present at that 
dispute : which could not be ; for the truce which the 
Athenians had concluded with the Lacedemonians, being 
expired, no Peloponnesian could be at Athens at that 
time. 

I should not have revived this accusation, if that wise 
and judicious critic, Casaubon, had not been so struck 
with it as to say, that he could not see what should be 
said in justification of Plato. It will, however, quickly 
appear, that the objections of Athenseus serve only to 
confirm the date of this Dialogue as fixed by Plato. 

We certainly know that the Athenians made peace with 
the Lacedemonians for fifty years, in the time of the 
Archon Alcseus, in the third year of the 89th Olympiad.* 
It is true, that this treaty was not faithfully observed on 
either side ; but it is also true, that this ill-cemented 
peace lasted six years and ten months, without coming to 
an open rupture. Then Hippias of Elis might have been 
at Athens in the second year of this treaty. So much for 
the last objection. 

The first is no better founded : let us see what Eupolis 
says. Cf Protagoras of Teos is within there" He says 
nothing more ; and it may be observed at first sight, that 
he is deceived as to the country of Protagoras : he assures 
us, that he is of Teos; but he was of Abdera. This remark 
will be of use to us. 

I say then, that Athenseus, instead of employing this 
verse of Eupolis to contradict Plato, ought rather to have 
made use of the passage of Plato to understand Eupolis. 
The poet and the philosopher are both right, and Athe- 
nseus is the only person that is wrong. Protagoras had 
made two journeys to Athens. Plato speaks of the 
second, and the verse of Eupolis must be understood of 
the first : for though Protagoras was not at Athens when 
the play was acted in the time of the Archon Alcseus, it 



* Thucyd. L. 5. 



300 THE INTRODUCTION TO PROTAGORAS. 



was enough that he had heen there : Poets have the pri- 
vilege of bringing the times nearer, and of noticing things 
that are past, as if they were present ; besides, he might 
be there when the poet composed it. Thus the verse of 
Eupolis serves on the one hand for a commentary to what 
Hippocrates says in this dialogue : " Socrates, I come to 
pray you to speak for me to Protagoras ; for, besides 
being too young, I never saw, nor knew him, I was but a 
child when he made his first journey." 

And, on the other hand, this passage of Plato serves to 
excuse the ignorance of Eupolis about the country of Pro- 
tagoras ; for Eupolis might very well be ignorant of it at 
his first journey, that sophist not being then very well 
known, whereas it would net have been pardonable in him 
to have been ignorant of it at the second. 

This fault of Atheneeus is less surprising than that of 
Casaubon, who followed him, and who in explaining his 
reasons commits another more considerable mistake, in 
assuring us that Thucydides does not speak of the one 
years truce that was made between the Athenians and the 
Lacedemonians under the Archon Isarchus, in the first 
year of the 89 th Olympiad, at the end of the eighth year of 
the war, and two years before the treaty of peace that has 
been spoken of ; for it is expressly set down in the fourth 
book, and the treaty is there related at length, with the 
date of the year, of the month, of the day, and of the 
season.* 

The wranglings of Athenseus serve only to vindicate 
Plato's exactness, and to make it appear that this Dialogue 
is beyond all criticism ; for if his censurer had found any 
other thing to find fault with, the envy with which he was 
animated against this philosopher would not have suffered 
him to have forgotten it. 

According to Diogenes Laertius, this dialogue is IvSeik- 
tlkoq, a dialogue of accusation, a satiric dialogue. One 
may say, that it is also avarpETTTLyoQ, destructive. But 
such names mark only the turn and the manner of the 
Dialogue. Its true character is logical and moral. 

* He sets the end of the eighth year of war, the 14th day of 
the month Esaphebolion (February) and the beginning of the Spring. 



301 



PROTAGORAS: 



OR, 



THE SOPHISTS. 



A FRIEND OF SOCRATES. 
SOCRATES. 

Socrat: Friend.* From whence come you, Socrates? 
But we need not ask ; you come from Alcibiades : you are 
highly in favour with that promising youth ! 

Soc. This very day, he said a thousand things in my 
favour, and always took my part : I have but just 
parted from him. And I will tell you a thing that may 
seem very strange to you, which is, that whilst he was 
present, I saw him not, and did not so much as think of 
him. 

Soc. Fr. What happened to you then, that you neither 
saw nor thought of him ? Is it possible that you have 

* Enquiry is made why Plato does not name this Friend of Socra- 
tes, and it is what will never be found out : It can only be guessed 
at. Perhaps Plato was afraid of exposing the friend of Socrates to 
the resentment of the sophists, who were in great credit at Athens, 
and revengeful; or, that the part which this friend here acts, not 
being considerable, it was not worth while to name him. 

2 D 



302 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



met with a more promising young man in the city than 
Alcibia 'es ? I cannot believe it, 
Soc. It is even so. 

Soc. Fr. In earnest ? Is he an Athenian, or a stran- 
ger ? 

Soc. He is a stranger. 

Soc. Fr. Whence comes he then ? 

Soc. From Abdera. 

Soc. Fr. And was he so fine, as to efface the comeliness 
of Alcibiades ? 

Soc. The greatest comeliness is not to be laid in the 
balance with great wisdom. 

Soc. Fr. Then you have just come from a wise man ? 

Soc. Yes, a wise man ; nay, a very wise man, at least 
if you look upon Protagoras to be the wisest of men now 
living. 

Soc. Fr. What do you tell me ? Is Protagoras in this 
city? 

Soc. Yes : he has been here these three days. 

Soc. Fr. And you have just parted from him? 

Soc. Yes, I have, after a very long conversation. 

Soc. Fr. If you are at leisure, will you relate that con- 
versation to us. 

Soc. I will willingly do it ; and shall be obliged if you 
will give ear to it. 

Soc. Fr. We shall be much more obliged to you. 

Soc. The obligation then will be reciprocal. Your busi- 
ness is only to hear me. This morning while it was yet 
dark, Hippocrates, the son of Apollodorus, and Phason's 
brother, knocked very hard at my gate ; it was no 
sooner opened, than he came directly to my chamber, 
calling with a loud voice, Socrates, are you asleep ? 
Knowing his voice, I said, what ! Hippocrates ! what news 
do you bring me ? Very good news, says he. God grant 
it, replied I. What is it then, that you come so early ? 
Protagoras is in town, says he. I replied, he has been 
here these two days. Did you not hear of it till now? I 
heard it but this night : and having said this, he drew 
near my bed, and feeling with his cane, sat down at my 
feet, and went on in this manner. I returned last night 
very late from the village of Doinoe, where I went to take 



THE SOPHISTS. 



303 



my slave Satyrus, who had run away : I was resolved to 
come and tell you that I was in search of him, but 
some other thing put it out of my thoughts. After I re- 
turned, had supped, and was going to bed, my brother 
came to tell me, that Protagoras had arrived : at first I 
thought of coming at once to acquaint you with this good 
news ; but considering that the night was already too far 
advanced, I went to my bed, and after a short* slumber, 
which refreshed me a little, I arose and came to you. I, 
who knew Hippocrates to be a man of courage, perceiving 
him thus excited, asked him what was the matter ? Has 
Protagoras, said I, done you any injury ? Yes, certainly, 
answered he, laughing ; he has done me an injury that I 
will not forgive, that is, that he is wise, and does not 
make me so. Oh ! said I, if you will pay him liberally 
and induce him to receive you as his disciple, he will 
doubtless make you wise also. 

I wish to God, says he, that were all ; I would not leave 
myself a half-penny, and I would even drain the purses of 
my friends. It is this only that brings me here ; I come to 
entreat you to speak to him for me ; for besides being too 
young, I never saw him nor knew him : I was but a child, 
when he first came, but I hear every body speak well 
of him, and they assure me, that he is the most eloquent 
of men. Let us visit him, before he goes abroad. I am 
told he lodges with Callias, son of Hipponicus.* Let us 
go, I conjure you. It is too early, said I, but let us walk 
in our court, where we will argue till day-light, then we 
will go ; I assure you we shall not miss him, for he 
seldom goes abroad. Then we went clown into the court, 
and while we were walking, I had a wish to find out 
what Hippocrates' s design was. To this end, I said to 
him: Well, Hippocrates, you are going to Protagoras to 
offer him money, that he may teach you something ; what 
sort of a person do you think him to be, and what would 
you have him to teach you ? If you should go to the 
great physician of Cos, who is your name-sake, and a de- 
scendant of iEscuiapius, and should offer him money ; if 

* Callias was one of the first citizens of Athens. His father 
Ripponicus had been general of the Athenians with Isicias at the 
battle of Tanagre. 



304 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



any one should ask you, to what sort of man you propose 
to give that money, and what would you become by means 
of it ; what would you answer ? — I would answer, that I 
give it to a physician, in order to be made a physician. 

And if you should go to Polycletus of Argos, or to 
Phidias, to give them money to learn something of them, 
and any one should ask you the question, to whom and 
for what purpose did you give your money, what would 
you answer ? 

I would answer, says he, that I give it to a statuary, in 
order to be made a statuary. 

That is very well. Now then we are going, you and I, 
to Protagoras, with a disposition to give him all that he 
shall ask for your instruction, if all that we have will 
satisfy him, or is enough to tempt him ; and if it be not 
enough, we are also ready to make use of the credit of 
our friends. If any person perceiving our extraordinary 
eagerness, should ask us to inform him why we give so 
much money to Protagoras, and what sort of a man we 
suppose him to be ; what should we answer him : What 
other denomination has Protagoras ? We know that 
Phidias has that of statuary, and Homer that of poet : 
what shall we call Protagoras, to describe him by his pro- 
per profession ? 

Protagoras is called a sophist, Socrates. 

Well the^ said 1, we are going to give our money to a 
sophist. 

Yes, certainly. 

And if the same person should continue to ask you, 
what do you design through Protagoras, to become ? 

At these words my friend blushing, for it was then light 
enough to let me see the alteration in his countenance : 
If we will follow our principle, says he, it is evident that I 
would become a sophist. 

By all that is good, said I ! would you not be 
ashamed to proclaim yourself a sophist among the 
Greeks ? 

1 swear to you, Socrates, seeing I must tell you the 
truth, I should be ashamed of it. 

Ha ! I understand you, my dear Hippocrates ; your 
design then is to go to the school of Protagoras, as you 
went to that of a grammarian, music-master, or master of 



THE SOPHISTS. 



30.3 



exercises : to whom you went not to learn the depth of 
their art, and to make profession thereof ; but only to 
exercise yourself, and to learn that which a gentleman 
and a man who would live in the world, ought necessarily 
to know. 

You are in the right, said he ; that is exactly the use 
that I would make of Protagoras. 

But, said I, do you know what you are going to do ? 
In what respect ! 

You are going to trust a sophist with your understand- 
ing ; and I dare assert, that you do not know what a 
sophist is ; and, since it is so, you know not with whom 
you are about to trust that which is most valuable to 
you, and you know not whether you put it into good or 
bad hands. 

Why, I believe I know what a sophist is. 

Tell me then, what is it ? 

A sophist, as his name denotes, is a learned man, who 
knows abundance of good things. 

We say the same thing of a painter, or an architect: 
They are also learned men, who know a great many good 
things : but if any body should ask us, wherein are they 
learned ? we should certainly answer them, that it is in 
what regards drawing of pictures and building of houses. 
If any one should ask us in like manner, wherein is 
a sophist learned ? Y\ nat should we answer ? AYhat is 
the art positively that he makes profession of ; And 
what should we say it is ? 

We should say, that his profession is to make men 
eloquent. 

Perhaps we might speak true in so saying ; that is 
something, but it is not all : your answer occasions an- 
other question, to wit, in what is it that a sophist renders 
a man eloquent ? For does not a player upon the lute 
also render his disciple eloquent in that which regards the 
lute? 

That is certain. 

In what is it then, that a sophist renders a man elo- 
quent ? is it not in that which he knows ? 
Without doubt. 

2 d 2 



306 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



What is it that he knows, and teaches others ? 
In truth, Socrates, I cannot tell. 

How then, said I, taking advantage of this confession : 
Alas ! do not you perceive to what frightful dangers 
you are about to expose yourself? If you had occa- 
sion to put your body into the hands of a physician 
whom you know not, and who might as well destroy it as 
cure it, would you not look to it more than once ? 
Would you not call your friends and relations to con- 
sult with them ? And would you not take time to re- 
solve on the matter ? You esteem your soul infinitely 
above your body, and you are persuaded that on it depends 
your happiness or unhappiness, according as it is well 
or ill-disposed ; and notwithstanding that its welfare is 
now at stake, you neither ask advice of your father, nor 
brother, nor of any of us who are your friends : you do 
not take so much as one moment to deliberate whether 
you ought to entrust it with this stranger who is just 
arrived ; but having heard of his arrival very late at night, 
you come the next morning, before break of day, to put it 
into his hands, and are ready not only to employ all your 
own riches for that purpose, but also those of your 
friends, You have resolved that you must deliver 
up yourself to Protagoras, whom you know not, as you 
yourself confess, and with whom you have not even 
spoken ; you call him a sophist, and, without knowing 
what a sophist is, you throw yourself into his hands. 

All that you say, Socrates, is very true ; you are in the 
right. 

Do not you find, Hippocrates, that the sophist is but 
a merchant, and a retailer of those things wherewith 
the soul is nourished ? 

So it seems, Socrates ; but what are the things where- 
with the soul is nourished ? 

Science, I answered. But, my dear friend, we 
must be very careful that the sophist, by boasting too 
much of his merchandise, does not deceive us, as those 
people do, who sell what is necessary to the nourish- 
ment of the body: for these, without knowing whe 
ther the provisions which they sell be good or bad, com- 



THE SOPHISTS. 



307 



mend them excessively, that they may sell em the 
better ; and those who buy them know them no better 
unless it be some physician, or master of exercises.* 
It is the same with those merchants who go into 
the cities to sell sciences to those who have a mind 
to them ; they praise indifferently all that they sell ; it 
may be, that most of them know not if what they 
sell is good or bad for the soul : but all those who 
buy any thing of them are certainly ignorant as to that 
matter, unless they meet with some person who is a good 
physician for the soul. If you are skilled in that matter, 
and know what is good or bad, you may certainly buy 
science of Protagoras and of all the other sophists ; but if 
you are not skilled in it, have a care, my dear Hippocrates, 
that when you go there, you do not make a very bad 
market, and hazard that which, of all things in the world, 
is dearest to you, for the risk we run in buying sciences, 
is far greater than that which we run in buying pro- 
visions, after we have bought the last, they may be 
carried home in vessels which they cannot spoil ; and 
before using them we have time to consult and to call to 
our assistance those who know what we ought to eat and 
drink, and what not ; the quantity we may take, and the 
time when; insomuch that the danger is not very great. 
But it is not the same with sciences, we cannot put them 
into any other vessel than the mind ; as soon as the 
bargain is made, it must of necessity be carried away, 
and that too in the soul itself ; and we must withdraw 
with it, being either enriched or ruined for the rest of 
our days. Let us therefore consult people of greater age 
and experience than ourselves upon the subject ; for we 

* In Hippocrates's time, and a little before; the physicians, 
having neglected the study of diet, which requires an exact know- 
ledge of every thing in nature, the masters of exercises laid hold on 
it as on a deserted estate, and took upon themselves to order their 
disciples such diet as was agreeable to them in regard to their 
temperament and exercises. Hippocrates began to put himself 
again in possession of it, and by degrees the physicians regained the 
places of exercise. There were but few masters of exercise who 
kept it up in the time of Plato. Most of them had hired physi- 
cians. 



308 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



are too young to determine such an important affair ; but 
let us go on, however, since we are in the way ; we shall 
hear what Protagoras will say ; and after having heard 
him, we will communicate with others. Doubtless Pro- 
tagoras will not be there alone, we shall find Hippias of 
Elis with him, and I believe we shall also find Prodicus of 
Ceos, and many others, all of them wise men, and of great 
experience. 

This resolution being taken, we went on. When we 
came to the gate, we stopped to conclude a small dispute 
we had by the way ; this continued a short time. I be- 
lieve the porter, who is an old eunuch, heard us ; and 
that the number of sophists who came there constantly, 
had put him in an ill-humour against all those who came 
to the house. We had no sooner knocked, but opening 
the gate and seeing us, (C Ah, ah, (said he) here are more 
of our sophists, he is not at leisure." And taking the 
gate with both his hands, he shut it in our face with 
all his force. We knocked again, and he answered us 
through the door, " Did you not understand me ? 
Have not I already told you, that my master will see no 
one ?" 

My friend, said I, we do not come here to interrupt 
Callias ; you may open without fear: we come to see 
Protagoras. Notwithstanding this, it was with much diffi- 
culty that we obtained admission. When we entered, we 
found Protagoras walking before the portal, and with him 
on the one side Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and his 
brother by the mother ; Paralus, the son of Pericles ; and 
Charmides, the son of Glaucon ; and on the other, were 
Xanthippus, the other son of Pericles ; Philippides, the 
son of Philomelus, and Antimoerus of Sicily the most 
famous disciple of Protagoras, and who aspires to be a 
sophist. After them marched a troop of people, most of 
whom seemed to be strangers that Protagoras had brought 
with him from all the cities through which he passed, 
and whom he attracts by the sweetness of his voice, like 
another Orpheus : there were also some Athenians 
amongst them. When I perceived this fine troop, I took 
great pleasure to see with what discretion and respect 



THE SOPHISTS. 



309 



they marched always behind, being very careful not to be 
before Protagoras. As soon as Protagoras turned with his 
company, this troop opened to the right and left, with a 
religious silence to make way for him to pass through, 
and after he had passed, began again to follow him. 

I perceived Hippias of Elis was seated upon tne 
other side of the portal, on an elevated seat ; and near 
him, upon the steps, I observed Eryximachus, the son of 
Acumenus, Phedras of Myrrhinuse,* Andron the son of 
Androtion, and some strangers of Elis mixed with them. 
They seemed, to propose some questions of physic and 
astronomy to Hippias, who answered all their doubts. I 
also saw Tantalus there ; Prodicus of Ceos was also there, 
but in a little chamber, which was usually Hipponicus's 
office, and which Callias, because of the number of people 
that came to his house, had given to those strangers, after 
having fitted it up for them. Prodicus was still in bed, 
wrapped up in skins and coverings, and Pausanias of 
Ceramet was seated by his bed-side, and with him a 
young man, who seemed to be of noble birth, and the 
comeliest person in the world. I think I heard Pausa- 
nias call him Agathon. There were also the two Adi 
mantes, the one the son of Cephis, and the other the son 
of Leucolophides, and some other young people. Being 
without, I could not hear the subject of their discourse, 
although I wished passionately to hear Prodicus, for he 
appears to me to be a very wise, indeed a divine man : 
but he has so loud a voice, that it caused a sort of echo in 
the chamber, which hindered me from understanding 
distinctly what he said. We had been there but a mo- 
ment, when Alcibiades came in, and Critias the son of 
Calaisehrus. 

After we had been there a short time, and considered 
a little what passed, we went out to join Protagoras. In 
accosting him : Protagoras, said I, Hippocrates and my- 
self are come to see you. 

Would you speak to me in private, said he, or in 
public ] 

* ^lyrrhinuse, a town of Attica. 

t Ceramis, or Cerame, a borough of Attica. 



SIO 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



When I have told you what brings us here, said I, you 
yourself shall judge which will be most convenient. 

What is it then, said he, that has brought you ? 

Hippocrates, whom you see there, replied I, is the son 
of Apollodorus, of one of the greatest and richest families 
of Athens, and as nobly born as any young man of his 
age ; he designs to acquire reputation and to make him- 
self illustrious in his country ; and he is persuaded that 
to succeed therein, he has need of your help. Will you 
then, rather entertain us upon this subject in private or 
public ? 

That is very well done, Socrates, to use this precaution 
towards me ; for a stranger who goes to the greatest 
cities, and persuades young persons of the highest rank to 
leave their fellow-citizens, parents, or others, and only to 
adhere to him, in order to become more able men by his 
conversation, cannot make use of too much precaution : 
for it is a very nice art, much exposed to the darts of 
envy, and which attracts much hatred and many snares. 
For my part, I maintain, that the art of sophistry is very 
ancient ; but those who professed it at first, to hide what 
is odious or suspected in it, sought to cover it, some with 
the veil of poetry, as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides ; 
others with purifications and prophecies, as Orpheus and 
Museus : some disguised it under the name gymnastic, as 
Iccus of Tarentum, Herodicus of Selymbra in Thrace, 
originally from Megara : and others concealed it under 
the specious pretext of music, as your Agathocles, a great 
sophist, if ever there was one, Pythoclides of Ceos, and 
an infinite number of others. 

All those people, I tell you, to shelter themselves from 
envy, have sought after sally-ports to withdraw them- 
selves out of trouble in time of need. In that I am no 
way of their opinion, being persuaded that they have not 
effected what they proposed. For it is impossible that 
they can hide themselves long from the eyes of those who 
have the chief authority in cities ; they will at last dis- 
cover your subtilties. It is true, that the people do 
not usually perceive them, but that does not save you ; 
for they are always of the opinion of their superiors, and 
speak only by their mouth. Besides, there is nothing 
more ridiculous than to be surprised, like a fool, when one 



THE SOPHISTS. 



311 



would hide himself ; as that hut increases the number of 
your enemies, and renders you more suspected; for then 
you are considered to he a dissembler, and crafty in all 
things. For my part, I take the opposite way; I have no 
disguise, I make an open profession of teaching men, 
and I declare myself a sophist. The best cunning of all, 
is to have none : I would rather show myself than be dis- 
covered. With this frankness, I fail not to take all other 
necessary precautions ; insomuch that, thanks be to God, 
no misfortune has befallen me as yet, though I proclaim 
that I am a sophist, and though I have practised that art 
for a great many years, for by my age I should be the 
father of you all ; so that nothing can be more agreeable 
to me, if you are inclined to it, than to speak to you in 
the presence of all that are in the house. 

I immediately perceived his object, which was to elevate 
himself in the opinion of Prodicus and Hippias, and to 
take advantage of our having addressed ourselves to him, 
as persons enamoured of his wisdom. Then I said to 
oblige him : But should not Prodicus and Hippias be 
called, that they may hear us ? Yes certainly, said Prota- 
goras; who desired no better. And Callias, catching our 
words upon the rebound, said, shall we prepare seats for 
you, that you may speak more at your ease ? That 
seemed to us to be a very good thought ; and, being im- 
patient to hear such able men discourse, we soon obtained 
seats from the house of Hippias. As soon as this was 
done, Callias and Alcibiades returned, bringing with them 
Prodicus, and all those that were with him. When we 
were all seated, Protagoras, addressing his discourse to me 
said, Socrates, now you may tell me, before all this good 
company, what you had already begun to say respecting 
this young man. 

Protagoras, said I, I shall pass no other compliment 
upon you, than what I have already done, and I shall 
tell you plainly why we are come hither. Hippocrates 
has an earnest desire to enjoy your conversation, and 
he would willingly know what advantages he shall reap 
from it. This is all we have to say. 

Then Protagoras, turning towards Hippocrates, My dear 
child, said he, the advantages which you shall reap from 



312 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



me, are, that from the first day of this correspondence you 
shall return at night more learned than you were the 
morning you came ; the next day the same, and every 
day you shall find that you have made some new pro- 
gress. 

But, Protagoras, said I, there is nothing extraordinary 
in this ; for you yourself, how old and learned soever you 
may be, if any body teach you what you knew not, you 
will also become more knowing than you were. Alas ! 
that is not what w r e demand. But suppose Hippocrates 
should suddenly change his mind, and apply himself to that 
young painter who is lately arrived in this city, Zeuxippus 
of Heracleus ; he addresses himself to him as he does now 
to you, that painter promiseth the same things as you 
have done, that every day he shall, become more learned, 
and make new progress. If Hippocrates asks him, in 
what shall I make so great a progress ? Will not Zeuxippus 
answer him, that he will make a progress in painting ? 

Suppose he should be disposed to join himself in the 
same manner to Orthagoras the Theban, and that after 
having heard the same promises as he has heard from 
you, he should ask the question ; in what he should be- 
come every day more learned ? Will not Orthagoras an- 
swer him, that it is in the art of playing upon the flute ? 
The matter being so, I pray you, Protagoras, to answer 
us likewise as positively. You tell us, that if Hippocrates 
join himself to you, from the first day, he will return more 
learned, the next day still more so, and every day after 
make new progresses, and so on all the days of his life. 
But explain to us wherein it is he will become so learned, 
and the advantages he shall reap from this learning. 

You have reason, Socrates, said Protagoras ; that* is a 
very pertinent question, and I dearly love to answer those 
who put such questions to me. I tell you then, that 
Hippocrates needs not fear, with me, any of those in- 
conveniences which would infallibly happen to him with 
all our sophists ; for all of them do notably prejudice 
young people, in forcing them, by their fine discourses, to 
learn arts which they care not for; as arithmetic, astronomy, 
geometry, music: [and in saying that, he looked upon Hip- 
pias, designing as it were to point him out : ] whereas with 



THE SOrHISTS. 



313 



me a young man will learn only the science for which he has 
addressed himself to me ; and that science is nothing 
but prudence, which teaches one to govern his house well, 
and which, as to things that regard the republic, renders 
us capable of saying and doing all that is most advan- 
tageous for it. 

If, said I, I conceive you aright : it seems to me, that 
you would speak of politics, and that you pretend to be able 
to make men good citizens. 

It is so, said he ; that is the thing that I boast of. 

In truth, said I, Protagoras, that is a wonderful science 
you possess, if it be true that you have it, and I shall not 
scruple to tell you freely what I think. I have hitherto 
thought, that it was a thing that could not be taught ; 
but since you say that you teach it, how can we but 
believe you ? In the mean time, it is just that I should 
give you the reasons why I believe it cannot be taught, 
and that one man cannot communicate that science to 
another.* I am persuaded, as are all the Greeks, that the 
Athenians are very wise. I see in all our assemblies, 
that when the city is obliged to undertake some new 
buildings, they call all the architects before them, to ask 
their advice ; that when they design to build ships, they 
send for the carpenters that work in their arsenals ; and 
that they do the same in ail other things that are required 
to be taught and learnt : and if any one, who is not of 
the profession, take upon him to give advice, though he 
be ever so fine, rich, and noble, yet they do not so much 
as give ear to him : but laugh at, and hiss him, until 
such time as he retires, or is carried off by the officers, 
by order of the senate. This is the manner of the city's 
conduct in all things that depend upon art. 

But when they deliberate upon those things that relate 
to the government of the republic, then every body is 
heard alike. You see the mason, locksmith, shoemaker, 
merchant, the seaman, the poor, rich, noble, the wag- 

* The first reason of Socrates, founded upon the practice of all 
men, is this. Upon things that are to be taught, they ask advice 
only of those who have learnt them ; but upon virtue they advise 
with every body : a clear proof that they are persuaded that virtue 
is not acquired. 

2 E 



314 



PROTAGORAS; OR, 



goner, &c. rise up to give their advice, and no one takes 
it ill ; there is no noise then, as on other occasions, 
and none of them is reproached for intruding to give 
advice in things he had never learnt, and in which he had 
not had a master ; an evident demonstration, that the 
Athenians do all believe that wisdom cannot be taught. And 
this is what is not only seen in the general aifairs relating 
to the republic, but also in private affairs, and in all 
families : for the wisest and the ablest of our citizens 
cannot communicate their wisdom and ability to others. 

Without going farther, Pericles has carefully caused 
his two sons, to learn all that masters could teach them; 
but as to wisdom, he does not teach them that ; he does 
not send them to other masters, but they feed in common 
in all pastures, like beasts consecrated to God,* that 
wander without a guide, to see if of themselves they 
can light by good fortune upon those healthful herbs, 
wisdom and virtue. It is true, that the same Pericles, 
being tutor to Alcibiades and Clinias, separated them, 
and placed Clinias with Ariphron, to the end that that 
wise man might take care to bring him up and instruct 
him. But what was the issue of it ? Clinias had not been 
six months there, before Ariphron, not knowing what to 
do with him, returned him to Pericles. 

I could quote you an infinite number of others, who, 
though they were very virtuous and learned, yet they could 
never make their own children, nor those of others, the 
better for that. And, when I think of all those exam- 
ples, I confess, Protagoras, that although I continue of 
this sentiment, that virtue cannot be taught ;f yet when 

* This passage, which is very fine, had not been intelligible, if I 
had translated it verbatim ; for the Greek says all this is one word, 
to<j7Tep atisTOL. It was therefore requisite to explain the figure, 
which is excellent, Socrates compares men to those beasts which the 
antients sometimes consecrated to the gods. As those beasts had 
no guides but the gods themselves,] so it is the same with men, 
chiefly as to what relates to virtue. Not only God, to whom they 
are consecrated by their birth, can conduct them to the pure 
springs, healthful waters, and rich pastures. It is the same notion 
as David had in Psalm 20. In loco pascuce ibi me collocavit. 

t This is an incontrovertible truth : for who is it that can correct 
him whom God hath abandoned, because of his vices? Who can 
make that straight which is thus made crooked? 



THE SOPHISTS. 



313 



I hear you speak as you do, it makes me waver, being 
persuaded that you have great experience, that you have 
learned much of others, and that you have found out many 
things yourself that others are ignorant of. If, therefore, 
you can plainly demonstrate to us, that virtue is of a nature 
to be taught, do not conceal so great a treasure : 1 conjure 
you to communicate it to us. 

Well, said he, I will not conceal it from you: but say; 
shall I, as an old man, speaking to young people, de- 
monstrate it to you byway of a fable,* or shall I do it by 
a plain and coherent discourse ? 

At these words, most of those who were present cried 
out, that he was the master, and that the choice was left 
to him. 

Since it is so, said he, I believe that a fable will be most 
agreeable. 

f There was a time when the Gods were alone, before 
there were either beasts or men. When the time appointed 
for the creation of these last came, the Gods formed them 
in the earth, by mixing the earth, the fire, and the other 
two elements, whereof they are composed, together. But, 
before they brought them to the light, they ordered Pro- 
metheus and Epimetheus J to adorn them, and to distri- 
bute to them all qualities convenient. Epimetheus begged 
of Prometheus to suffer him to make this distribution; 
which Prometheus consented to. 

Behold, then, Epimetheus in his office ! He gives to 
some strength without swiftness, and to others swiftness 

* Fables were the strength of the sophists. It was by these that 
Natural Religion, if we may so speak, was supplanted; and that Pa- 
ganism, which is the corruption thereof, was introduced in its stead : 
wherefore St. Paul exhorts the faithful with so much care to avoid 
fab-es. When a man refuses to hearken to the truth, he, of course, 
gives ear to fables. 

t In this fable, which is very ingenious, are traced the great foot- 
steps of truth; as, that God was everlasting before the creation of 
man • that there was a time destined by Providence for that crea- 
tion ; and that man was created of the earth, in which were hid the 
seeds of all creatures. 

J By Prometheus, is here meant the superior angels ; to whom, 
some think, God entrusted the care of man in the creation, though 
they act solely by his spirit ; for they only execute his orders. And, 
by Epimetheus, are meant the elementary virtues, wdiich can give 
nothing but what they have received, and which go astray when 
Uiey are not led and guided by the Spirit that created them. 



316 



PROTAGORAS; OR, 



without strength. To these he gives natural arms, and 
denies them to others, but at the same time gives them 
other means to preserve and defend themselves; he assigns 
caves and holes in the rocks for the retreat of those to 
which he gives but small bodies; or otherwise, by giving 
them wings, he shows them their safety is in the air. He 
makes those understand to whom he has allotted bulk, 
that that bulk is sufficient for their preservation. Thus 
he finished his distribution with the greatest equality he 
possibly could, taking particular care that none of those 
kinds should be extirpated by the other. 

After having provided them with means to defend them- 
selves from the attacks of each other, he took care to pro- 
vide them against the injuries of the air, and the rigour of 
the seasons: for this purpose he clothed them with thick 
hair and very close skins, capable of defending them 
against the winter's frost and the summer's heat;, and 
which, when they have occasion to sleep, serve them in- 
stead of a bed to lie upon, and a covering over them; he 
also provides their feet with a firm and thick hoof, and a 
very hard skin. 

That being done, he assigns to each of them their food, 
viz. to one herbs, to another the fruits of the trees; to 
some roots, and one kind he permitted to feed upon the 
flesh of other creatures: but lest that kind should come at 
last to extirpate the others, he made it less fruitful, and 
made those that were to nourish them singularly prolific. 
But as Epimetheus was not very wise and prudent, he did 
not take notice that he had employed all his qualities to 
the use of irrational creatures, and that man was still 
wanting to be provided for; he therefore knew not on 
what side to turn himself, when Prometheus came to see 
what partition he had made. He saw all the creatures 
perfectly well provided for; but found man quite naked, 
without weapons, shoes, or covering.* 

The day appointed to take man out of the bosom of 
the earth, and to bring him to the light of the sun, being 
come, Prometheus therefore knew not what to do to make 
man capable of preserving himself. At last, he made use 

* Epimetheus had given him all that he could give ; for man, 
being gifted with reason, ought to furnish himself with all things 
necessary for his preservation. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



317 



of this expedient : lie robbed Vulcan and Minerva of their 
wisdom relating to arts ; * he also stole the fire ; for with- 
out fire this wisdom could not be possessed; it would have 
been quite useless: and he presented them to man. After 
this manner, man received wisdom sufficient to preserve 
his life, but he did not receive the wisdom which relates 
to politics : f for J upiter had it, and Prometheus had not 
the liberty to enter into the sacred mansion of this master 
of the Gods. J The way to it was defended by terrible 
guards :§ but, as I just now told you, he slipped into the 
common room, where Yulcan and Minerva were at work, 
and having robbed that God of his art, which is prac- 
tised by fire, and this Goddess of her art, which relates 
to the design and conduct of the works, he gave them 
to man, who by this means found himself in a condition 
to provide all things necessary for life. It is said that 

* Vulcan and Minerva are the two causes of arts. Vulcan (the 
fire) furnishes the instruments and the operation, and Minerva (the 
spirit) gives the design and knowledge by the imagination, which 
is, as it were, a ray that she sends from above ; for arts are only 
imitations of the spirit and of the understanding, and they only give 
the form, and adorn the matter upon which they act. — ProcL 

t According to this fable, the knowledge of arts preceded politic 
and moral virtues in the soul of man. This is a false tradition. 

$ This mansion of Jupiter is called here by a word which signifies 
fortress, and by which the ancient theologues, says Proclus, under- 
stood the upper region of the heaven and the primum mobile ; from 
whence they conceived, that God gave motion to all things, and 
communicated his light, and his fruitful irradiations to the inferior 
gods for the creation of beings, without being subject to any cause. 
And it is of this fortress that Homer would speak, when he says, 
that Jupiter keeps himself at a distance upon the highest pinnacle 
of the heavens. 

§ Those terrible guards which defend the way to this fortress of 
Jupiter, serve, according to Proclus, to point out the immutability 
of his decrees, and his indefatigable watchfulness for the support of 
that order which he has established. W e may also say, that those 
guards are to let us know, tiiat all the celestial spirits cannot enter 
into the secrets of Providence, but in so far as God wills to call them 
to it by his goodness. Wherefore Jupiter says in Homer (book first 
of the Iliads), t hat the other gods cannot enter into his counsels, and 
that they can know nothing, but what he pleases to communicate to 
them. Those guards may also have been feigned from the cheru- 
bim s that God placed at the entrance of the terrestrial paradise, 
end who defended the same with a flaming sword. 



2 e 2 



318 PROTAGORAS; OR, 

Prometheus was afterwards punished for this robbery, 
which he committed only to repair the default of Epime- 
theus. 

When man had received such divine advantages, he 
became the only one of all the creatures, who, because of 
his kindred, that linked him to the Divine Being, thought 
that there were gods. Who raised altars and erected 
statues to them ; he also settled a language, and gave 
names to all things. He built himself houses, made him- 
self clothes, shoes, and beds, and procured himself food 
out of the bowels of the earth. 

But notwithstanding all the helps that men had from 
their very birth, still they lived dispersed ; for there was 
yet no city. Therefore they were miserably devoured by 
the beasts, as being every where much feebler than they. 
The arts they had were a sufficient help to them to 
nourish themselves, but very insufficient for defence 
against enemies, and to make war with them ; for they 
had not as yet any knowledge of politics, whereof the art 
of war is one part. 

They therefore thought only of gathering themselves 
together, for their preservation, and of building cities. 
But they were no sooner together, than they did one 
another more mischiefs, by their injustice, than the beasts 
had formerly done them by their .cruelty. And those 
injustices proceeded only from this, that they had not yet 
any idea of politics. Therefore they were soon obliged to 
separate themselves ; and were again exposed to the fury 
of the beasts. 

Jupiter being moved with compassion, and also fearing 
that the race of man would be soon extirpated, sent Mer- 
cury* with orders to carry shame and justice to men, to 
the end that they might adorn their cities, and confirm 
the bonds of amity. 

Mercury having received this order, asked Jupiter, how 
he should do to communicate unto men shame and justice, 
and if he should distribute them as Prometheus had dis- 

* The ancients therefore knew this truth, that God could make 
use of the ministry of an angel or god, to acquaint men with 
his will, to cure their weaknesses, and to communicate virtues to 
them. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



319 



tributed the arts. For, added he, the arts were distri- 
buted thus : he who has the art of physic given him, is 
able alone to serve many particular persons. It is the 
same also with all other artists. AVill it therefore be 
enough if I follow the same method, and if I give shame 
and justice to a small number of people ? Or shall I dis- 
tribute them indifferently to all ? To all, without doubt, 
replied Jupiter, they must all have them : for if they are 
communicated only to a small number, as other arts are, 
there will never be either societies or cities. Moreover, 
thou shalt publish this law in my name, that every man, 
who has not shame and justice, shall be cut off as the 
plague of cities. 

This is the reason, Socrates, why, when the Athenians 
and other people consult about affairs relating to arts, 
they listen only to the counsel of a small number, that is 
to say, of artists. And if any others, who are not of the 
profession, take upon them to give their advice, they 
do not allow him, as you have very well observed, and 
as indeed is but reasonable. But when they treat of 
affairs relating to policy, as this policy ought always to 
rest upon justice and temperance, then they hear every 
body, and that with very good reason ; for every one must 
have these virtues, otherwise there can be no cities. That 
is the only reason of this difference, which you have so 
well argued against. 

And, that you may not think that I deceive you, when 
I say that all men are truly persuaded that every person 
has a sufficient knowledge of justice, and of all other 
politic virtues, I will give you a proof which will not suffer 
you to doubt it ; if, for example, a man should boast that 
he is an excellent player upon the flute,* without knowing 
anything of it, every one would treat him with derision. On 
the other hand, when we see a man, who, as to justice 
and other politic virtues, says before every one, and 
testifies against himself, that he is neither just nor vir- 
tuous, though on all other occasions there is nothing more 

* This is a false reasoning' of the sophist. We plainly perceive 
when a man knows not how to play upon the flute ; bat it is not 
to easily seen whether a man be ju t, or only counterfeits justice. 



320 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



commendable than to tell the truth, yet in this case it is 
taken for a sign of folly : and the reason of it is said to be, 
that all men are obliged to say that they are just, even 
though they are not ; and that he, who at least cannot 
counterfeit a just man, is a perfect fool, seeing there is no 
person who is not obliged to participate of that virtue. 
You see then, that it is with good reason every one is 
heard speak when politics are spoken of, because we 
are persuaded, that there is no man who has not some 
knowledge of it. 

Now that the world is persuaded, that civil virtues are 
neither the present of nature, nor an effect of chance, but 
the result of reflection and of precept, is what I am 
about to demonstrate to you. 

You see that no person blames us for the faults and 
vices, which they are persuaded are natural to us, or 
which come to us by chance, no one admonishes us, or 
chastises us on this account. On the contrary, they 
pity us. For who would be so mad as to undertake 
to reprehend a man who is deformed, for being so ? Is 
not every one persuaded, that the defects of the body, as 
well as its beauties, are the work of nature, or an effect of 
fortune, which often changes what nature has made ? 
But it is not the same as to other things which are the 
result of application and study ; when any one is found 
who has them not, or who has vices opposite to those 
virtues which he ought to have, then we are really angry 
with him : he is admonished, reproved, and chastised. 
Among these vices are injustice, impiety, and, in a word, 
all that is opposite to politic and civil virtues. As all 
these virtues are to be acquired by study and labour, 
every one condemns those who have neglected to learn 
them. 

This is so true, Socrates, that if you will take the pains „ 
only to examine what that means, To punish this 
wicked, what force it bears, and what end is proposed by 
this punishment ; that alone is suflicient to persuade you 
of this truth, that virtue may be acquired. 

For no one punishes a miscreant, merely because he has 
been wicked, unless it be some savage beast, who punishes 
to satisfy his own cruelty. But he who punishes with 



THE SOPHISTS. 



321 



reason, does not do it for past faults, for it is impossible 
to recall what lias been done ; but for faults that are 
to come, to the end that the guilty may not relapse, and 
that others may take example by their punishment. And 
every man who has this for his end, must of necessity be 
persuaded, that virtue may be taught. For he punishes 
only for future good. Now it is plain, that all men who 
punish the wicked, whether it be in private or in public, 
do it only for this end ; and your Athenians do it as well 
as others. From whence it follows, by a most just and 
necessary consequence, that the Athenians are persuaded 
as well as other people, that virtue may be acquired and 
taught. Thus it is with a great deal of reason that your 
Athenians give ear in their counsels to a mason, a smith, a 
shoemaker, &c. and that they are persuaded that virtue 
may be taught. Methinks this is sufficient proof. 

The only scruple that remains, is, that which you make 
about great men ; for you ask whence it comes that great 
men teach their children in their infancy all that can be 
taught by masters, and make them very learned in all 
arts ; and that they neglect to teach them those virtues 
which cause all their grandeur and high character. To 
answer you that, Socrates, I shall have no farther recourse 
to fables, but shall give you very plain reasons. 

Do not you believe, that there is one thing above all, to 
which all men are equally obliged, or otherwise there can 
be neither society nor city ? The solution of your diffi- 
culty depends upon this one point : for if this only 
thing exists, and that it be neither the art of a carpenter, 
nor that of a smith, nor that of a potter ; but justice, 
temperance, holiness, and, in a word, all that is compre- 
hended under the name of virtue ; if that thing exists, 
and all men are obliged to partake thereof, insomuch that 
every particular person who would instruct himself, or do 
any other thing, is obliged to guide himself by its rules, 
or renounce all that it desires ; that all those who will not 
partake thereof, men, women, and children, must be re- 
proved, reprehended, and chastised, until instructions or 
punishments reform them ; and that those who will not 
be reformed, must either be banished or punished with 
death. If it be so, as you cannot doubt, and that not- 



322 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



withstanding this, those great men, of whom you speak, 
should teach their children all other things, and should 
neglect to teach them this thing, I mean virtue ; it must 
then be a miracle if children, so much neglected, become 
persons of worth, and good citizens. J have already- 
proved to you, that every one is persuaded that virtue 
may be taught in public and private. Since then it may 
be taught, do you think that fathers teach their children 
the things that they may be securely ignorant of, without 
incurring death, or the least penalty; and that they 
neglect to teach them those things, the ignorance whereof 
is usually attended by imprisonment, exile, confiscation of 
goods, and, in a word, by the utter ruin of families ? 
For this is the thing that happens to those who are 
not brought up virtuously. Is there not a greater likeli- 
hood that they will employ all their pains and all their 
applications, to teach them that which is so important 
and so necessary ? Yes, without doubt, Socrates ; and 
we ought to think, that those fathers, taking their 
children in their younger years, that is, as soon as they 
are capable of understanding what is said to them : never 
cease all their lives to teach and reprehend them, and not 
the fathers only, but also the mothers, nurses, and pre- 
ceptors, they all chiefly endeavour to make children honest 
and virtuous, by shewing them in every thing they do, 
and say, that such a thing is just, and such a thing unjust ; 
that this is handsome, and that unhandsome ; that this is 
holy, and that impious. If children voluntarily obey these 
precepts, they are rewarded and praised; and if they do 
not obey them, they are threatened and chastised ; they 
are propt up and set right, like trees that bend and become 
crooked. 

When they are sent to school, it is earnestly recom- 
mended to their masters not to apply themselves so much 
to teach them to read well, and to play well upon instru- 
ments, as to teach them virtue and modesty. Therefore 
those masters take very great care of it. When they can 
read, instead of giving them precepts by word of mouth, 
they make them read the best poets, and oblige them to 
get them by heart. There they find excellent precepts for 
virtue, and recitals which contain the praises of the great- 



THE SOPHISTS. 



323 



est men of antiquity, to the end that those children being 
inflamed with a noble emulation, may imitate and endea- 
vour to resemble them. 

The poets and those who teach youth to play upon in- 
struments, take the same pains; they train up young peo- 
ple to modesty, and take particular care that they do 
nothing amiss. 

When they understand music, and can play well upon 
instruments, they put into their hands the poems of the 
lyric poets, which they make them sing and play upon the 
harp, to the end that numbers and harmony may insinuate 
themselves into their souls, whilst they are yet tender; 
and that being thereby rendered more soft, tractable, 
polite, and, as we may say, more harmonious and agreeable, 
they may be capable of speaking well, and doing well: 
for the whole life of man has need of number and har- 
mony. 

Not being satisfied with these means alone, they send 
them also to masters of exercise, to the end that having a 
sound and robust body, they may the better execute the 
orders of a masculine and sound spirit, and that the weak- 
ness of their constitution may not hinder them from serving 
then country, whether it be in war, or in other functions. 
And those who send their children most to masters, are 
such as are best able to do it ; that is to say, the richest : 
insomuch that the children of the rich begin their exer- 
cises the earliest, and continue them the longest; for they 
go thither in their tender years, and do not cease till they 
are men. 

They have no sooner quitted their masters, than their 
country obliges them to learn the laws, and to live ac- 
cording to the rules they prescribe, that they may do 
all things by reason, and nothing out of conceit and 
fancy. And as writing-masters give their scholars, who 
have not yet learnt to write straightly, a rule to direct 
them; so the country gives laws to men, that were in- 
vented and established by ancient legislators. It obliges 
them to govern and submit to be governed, according to 
their laws; and if any one goes astray, it punishethhim; and 
this punishment is called with you, as in many other places, 
by a word which properly signifies to reform; as justice 



324 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



reforms those who turn aside from the rule which ought to 
guide them. 

After so much pains taken, hoth in public and private, 
to inspire virtue, are you amazed, Socrates, and can you 
have the least doubt that virtue may be taught ? This 
should be so far from surprising you, that you ought, on 
the other hand, to be very much surprised if the contrary 
should be true. 

But you will say, how comes it to pass, that many of 
the greatest men's children become dishonest ? Here I 
have a very plain reason, that has nothing surprising in it, 
if what I have already supposed be firm and unshaken ; that 
is to say, if every man is indispensably obliged to have 
virtue, to the end that societies and cities may subsist. 
If it be so, as without doubt it is, consider the other sci- 
ences or professions that men are employed in, and you 
shall see that what I advance is true. 

Let us suppose, for example, that this city could not 
subsist unless we were all players on the flute : * is it not 
certain, that we should all addict ourselves to the flute, 
that both in public and private we should teach one another 
to play upon it ; that we should reprehend and chastise 
those who should neglect to play, and that we should no 
more make that science a mystery to them, than we do that 
of justice and law? For does any body refuse to teach 
another justice ? does any one keep that science secret, 
as he does others ? No, certainly. And the reason of it is 
this, that the virtue and justice of every particular man 
is useful to the whole body. That is the reason why 
every one is always ready to teach his neighbour all that 
concerns law and justice. If it were the same in the art of 
playing on the flute, and that we were all equally ready to 
teach others, what we know of it, do you think, Socrates, 
that the children of the most excellent players upon the 
flute, would always become more perfect in that art than 

* This sophist always mistakes himself. It is not the same with 
virtue as with other arts ; a man is an able artist, though he has not 
acquired the highest perfection in art ; but a man is not virtuous un- 
less he has all virtue : for if one part of it be wanting, all is wanting* 
Protagoras will immediately fall into a manifest contradiction. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



325 



the children of the worst players ? I am persuaded ycu 
believe nothing of the kind. 

The children who would be found to be the most happily 
born for that art, would be those who should make the 
greatest progress therein, and who should render them- 
selves the most famous for it; the rest would fatigue 
themselves in vain, and would never gain any name by it ; 
as we frequently see the son of an excellent player upon 
the flute to be an indifferent scholar ; and the son of a 
blockhead to become an able musician : But they are all 
superior if we compare them with the ignorant, and with 
those who never handled a flute. We must hold it for 
certain, that it is the same in the present case ; such an 
one as would appear to you now to be the most ignorant 
of those who are brought up in the knowledge of the laws, 
and in civil society, would be qualified to teach justice, if 
you should compare him with, people who have neither 
education, law, tribunal, nor judges, who are not forced 
by any necessity to apply themselves to virtue ; who, in a 
word, should resemble those savages which Pherecrates * 
caused to be acted last year, at the country-feasts of 
Bacchus. f Believe me, if you were among men like the 
misanthropes that that poet introduces, you would think 
yourself very happy to fall into the hands of an Euribates 
and a Phrynondas, % and you would sigh for the wicked- 
ness of our people, against which you declaim so much. 
But your distemper comes only from too much ease : 
because every body teaches virtue as they can, you are 
pleased to cry out, and say, that there is not so much 
as one master that teacheth it. It is just as if you 

* The poet Pherecrates had acted a play, whereof the title was 
iiypioi, The Savages. And there is some appearance of probabi- 
lity that he represented therein the unhappy life that the first men 
led before they were united by society; and his aim was, to let the 
Greeks see that there was no hapniness for them, but to be well 
united, aud faithfully to execute the treaty of peace, which had so 
lately terminated a long and fatal war. 

X At the country-feasts of Bacchus. He says the country -feasts, 
because there were other feasts of Bacchus that were celebrated in 
the city the beginning of the spring, and the country-feasts were ce- 
lebrated the latter end of autumn in the fields. 

X Euribates and Phrynondas were two notorious profligates, who 
had given occasion for the proverbs, (l An action of Euribates," t( To 
do the actions of Euribates," a It is another Phrynondas." 

2 F 



326 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



should seek in Greece for a master who teacheth the Greek 
tongue, you would find none : Why ? because every body 
teacheth it. Indeed, if you seek for one who can teach 
tradesmen's sons the trade of their fathers with the same 
capacity as their fathers themselves, I believe, Socrates, 
that such a master would not easily be found ; but there is 
nothing more easy than to find one who can teach the igno- 
rant. It is the same with virtue and all other things. 
And how little soever be the advantage that another man 
has over us, to push us forward, and to make us advance 
in the way of virtue, it is always a very considerable thing, 
and for which we ought to think ourselves very happy. 
Now, I am certainly one of those who have all the neces- 
sary qualities for that ; for I know better than any other 
person in the world, all that must be done to make an ho- 
nest man ; and I can say, that I do not rob them of the 
money which I take ; nay, I deserve more, even in the 
opinion of my scholars. Wherefore this is the bargain 
that I usually make : when any body has learned of me, if 
he desires he pays me what others usually give ; if not, he 
may go into a temple, and after having sworn that what I 
have taught him is worth so much, deposit the sum which 
he designs for me. Socrates, this is the fable, and the sim- 
ple reasons I have thought fit to make use of to prove to 
you, that virtue may be taught ; and to let you see, that 
we must not be astonished that the children of the greatest 
men are commonly very little worth, and that those of the 
ignorant and the poor succeed better, since we have seen 
that the sons of Polycletus, who are of the same age with 
Xantippus and Paralus, are nothing, if compared with their 
father ; and so of many other children of our greatest 
masters. 

Protagoras having finished this long and fine discourse, 
I, after having been some time at a stand, as a man charmed 
and ravished ; looked upon him as if he should still conti- 
nue to speak; but finding that he had actually done, 
and having at length resumed courage, I turned towards 
Hippocrates. In truth, Hippocrates, said I, I cannot ex- 
press how much I am indebted to you, for having obliged 
me to come hither, for I would not for all the world, but 
have heard Protagoras : hitherto I believed that it was not 
by the help and care of men that we became honest ; but 



THE SOPHISTS. 



327 



now I am persuaded that it is a thing purely human. 
There is however one small difficulty remaining, which Pro- 
tagoras will no doubt easily resolve. If we should consult 
some of our great orators upon such matters, perhaps they 
would entertain us with similar discourses, and we might 
believe that we heard a Pericles,* or some of those who 
have been the most eloquent ; and after that, if objection 
were made to them, they would not know what to answer, 
and though no one should ask them ever so little upon 
what they might have already said, their answer would have 
no end ; they would be as a brass kettle, which being once 
struck, keeps its sound a long time, unless one puts his 
hand upon it, and stops it; so our orators when once 
touched resound without end. It is not the same with 
Protagoras, for he is not only very capable of holding long 
and fine discourses, as now appears, but also of answering 
precisely, and in a few words, the questions that are put 
to him ; and can start others, and wait for and receive 
the answers, which few people are capable of doing. 

Now, then, said I to Protagoras, there wants but a small 
thing to answer me, and I shall be satisfied. You say, that 
virtue can be taught ; but I pray you to remove the scruple 
which you have left in my mind.f You have said that 
Jupiter sent shame and justice to men; and in your whole 
discourse you have spoken of justice, temperance, and 
sanctity, as if virtue were only one thing which included 
all these qualities. Explain to me then, if virtue be one, 
and if justice, temperance, and sanctity, are only its parts; 
or if aU these qualities which I have now named be only 
different names of one and the same thing. This is what 
I desire of you. 

There is nothing more easy, Socrates, than to satisfy you 

* This is a difficult passage, if we have no regard to the time, that 
is to say, if we do not observe the date of the dialogue. It is that 
which deceived Henry Stephens, who translated it as if Pericles 
were still alive, whereas he had been dead eight or nine years. 

t Socrates does not trouble himself to answer all the sophisms of 
Protagoras, which are too gross; but he goes at once to the main 
point of the question, which consists in knowing the nature of virtue ; 
for virtue being well known, it will be clearly seen that it is not pos- 
sible for men to teach it. 



328 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



in that point : for virtue is one thing, and these are its 
parts. 

But, said I to him, are these its parts, as the mouth, nose, 
ears and eyes are the parts of the face? Or are they parts 
like parts of gold, that are all ,of the same nature as the 
mass, and different from each other only in quantity ? 

They are without doubt parts of it, as the mouth and the 
nose are parts of the face. 

But, said I, do men acquire some one part of this virtue, 
and others another? Or is there a necessity that he who 
acquires one must acquire all? 

By no means, answered he. For you see every day peo- 
ple who are valiant and unjust, and others who are just 
without being wise. 

For valour and wisdom are only parts of virtue. 

Assuredly, said he, and wisdom is the greatest of its parts. 

And is every one of its parts different from another ? 

Without doubt. 

And every one has its properties : as in the parts of the 
face the eyes are not of the same use with the ears, and 
have different properties and faculties ; and so of all the 
other parts, they are all different, and do not resemble each 
other either in form or quality. Is it the same of the parts 
of virtue ? Does no one of them in any wise resemble 
another? and do they absolutely differ in themselves and 
in their faculties ? It is evident that they do not resemble 
each other at all, if it be the same of them as of the example 
which we have made use of. 

That is very certain, Socrates, and the example is just. 

Then said I to him, virtue has no other of its parts 
which resemble knowledge, justice, valour, temperance, or 
sanctity. 

No, without doubt. 

Come then, let you and I examine to the bottom the na- 
ture of every one of its parts. Let us begin with justice : 
is it any thing or nothing? For my part, I think it is 
something : what do you think? 

I also think it to be something. 

If then any body should apply himself to you and me, 
and should say to us, Protagoras and Socrates, explain to 
me, I pray you, what is that which you just now called 
justice ? Is it something that is just or unjust ? 



THE SOPHISTS. 



329 



I should answer that it is something that is just; would 
not you answer the same ? 
Yes, certainly. 

Justice consists then, he would say, according to you, 
in being just? 

We would say yes : is it not so ? 
Without doubt, Socrates. 

And if he should ask us, after that ; Do not you also 
say, that there is sanctity ? Should not we answer him in 
the same manner that there is ? 

Assuredly. 

You maintain, he would reply, that it is something; 
what is it then? is it to be holy, or to be profane ? For 
my part, I confess, Protagoras, that at this question I 
should be in a passion, and should say to the man, speak 
sense, I pray you ; what is there that can be holy, if sanctity 
itself be not holy? Would not you answer thus? ' 

Yes indeed, Socrates. 

If after that the man should continue to question us, 
and should say, But what did you just now say ? Have I 
misunderstood you ? It seemed to me, that you said the 
parts of virtue were all different, and that one was never 
like another. For my part, I should answer him, you have 
reason to allege that it was said ; but if you think it was I 
who said it, you are mistaken ; for it is Protagoras who 
affirmed it . I only asked the question : doubtless he 
would not fail to apply himself to you, Protagoras ; he 
would say, Do you agree to what Socrates says ? Is it 
you alone that assure me, that none of the parts of virtue 
are like to one another ? Is that your opinion ? What 
would you answer him, Protagoras ? 

I should be forced to confess it, Socrates. 

And after this confession, what could we answer him, if 
he should continue his questions, and say, According to you 
then sanctity is neither a just thing, nor justice a holy 
thing; but justice is profane, and sanctity is unjust. Is 
then the just man profane and impious? What should we 
answer him, Protagoras ? I confess, that for my part, I 
should answer him, that I maintain justice to be holy, and 
sanctity to be just : and if you yourself did not prevent 
me, I should answer for you, that you are persuaded that 

2 f 2 f 



330 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



justice is the same thing with sanctity, or at least a thing 
very like it. See then if yon would answer so, and if you 
would confess it to me. 

I could not confess it, Socrates ; for that does not seem 
to me to he true, we ought not so easily to grant that jus- 
tice is holiness, and that sanctity is justice ; there is some 
difference between them ; but what will you make of that ? 
If you will have it so, I consent that justice is holy, and 
that sanctity is just. 

Now, said I to him, if I will is not the question ; it is not 
as I will, it is you or I, it is our persuasion and our prin- 
ciple ; that if does nothing but darken the truth and ren- 
der proofs useless ; it must therefore be removed. 

However, we may say > answered he, that justice re- 
sembles sanctity in something ; for one thing always re- 
sembles another in some sort; white itself has in some mea- 
sure a resemblance to black, hard to soft; and so of all 
other things which seem to be the most contrary to each 
other. Those very parts which we have agreed have each 
different properties and faculties, and that one is not like 
the other, I mean the parts of the face ; if you look to 
them narrowly, you will find that they in some measure 
resemble one another: and after this manner you may very 
well prove, if you will, that all things are alike. However, 
it is not just to call things alike, that have but a small 
resemblance ; as it is not just to call those things unlike 
that differ but little from each other : To speak properly, 
as a slight resemblance, does not render things alike, so a 
small difference does not make them unlike. 

Being amazed at this discourse of the sophist, I asked 
him: Does then the just and holy seem to you to have only 
a slight resemblance to each other ? 

That resemblance, Socrates, is not so small as I have 
said, but at the same time it is not so great as you say. 

Well, said I, since you seem to be in so ill a humour 
against this sanctity and justice, let us leave them, and 
take some other subject. What do you think of folly ? is it 
not entirely contrary to wisdom ? * 

* Socrates is going to prove, that temperance and moderation are 
the same thing with wisdom, seeing they are contrary to folly ; for 



THE SOPHISTS. 



331 



It seems so to me. 

When men have governed themselves well and profitably, 
do not they seem to you to be more temperate and more 
moderate than when they do the contrary ? 

Without doubt. 

Are they not then governed by moderation ? 
It cannot be otherwise. 

And those who have no good government over them- 
selves, do they not act foolishly, and are in no wise mode- 
rate in their conduct ? 

I agree with you in that ? 

Therefore is not acting foolishly contrary to acting mo- 
derately. 
It is agreed. 

That which is done foolishly, does it not come from 
folly? and does not that which is done discreetly proceed 
from moderation. 

That is true. 

Is not that which proceeds from force, strong ; and that 
which proceeds from weakness, feeble ? 
Certainly. 

Is it not from swiftness that a thing is swift ; and from 
slowness that a thing is slow? 
Without doubt. 

And all that is done the same, is it not done by the same ? 
and is not the contrary done by the contrary ? 
Yes, doubtless. 

Oh! said I, let us see then, is there not something that 
is called beauty ? 
Yes. 

This beauty, has it any other contrary than ugliness ? 
No. 

Is there not something that is called good ? 
Yes. 

This good, has it any other contrary than evil ? 
No, it has no other. 

Is there not in the voice a sound which is called acute ? 
Yes. 

one contrary can have but one contrary: and thus temperance, 
moderation and wisdom, are similar parts of virtue. 



332 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



And that shrill, has it any other contrary than grave ? 
No. 

Every contrary then has but one contrary, and no more? 
I confess it. 

Let us make a recital then, of the things wherein we 
are agreed. 

We have agreed, 

1 . That every contrary has but one only contrary. 

2. That contraries are made by contraries. 

3. That that which is done foolishly, is done after a 
quite contrary manner to that which is done discreetly. 

4. That that which is done discreetly proceeds from 
moderation, and that which is done foolishly proceeds 
from folly. 

It is agreed. 

That therefore which is done a contrary way, ought to 
be done by the contrary : that which is done discreetly, 
is done by moderation, and that which is done foolishly, 
is done by folly of a contrary way, and always by con- 
traries ? 

Certainly. 

Is not moderation then contrary to folly ? 
So it seems to me. 

You remember, however, that you agreed just now, that 
wisdom was contrary to folly. 
I confess it. 

And that one contrary had but one contrary. 
That is true. 

From which then of these two principles shall we re- 
cede, my dear Protagoras ? Shall it be from this, that 
one contrary has but one contrary ? Or from that which 
we asserted just now, that wisdom is some other thing 
than temperance and modesty ; that each of them are 
parts of virtue, and that as they are different, they are 
also unlike, both by their nature and effects, as the parts 
of the face ? Which of these two principles shall we 
renounce ? for they do not agree, but make a horrible 
discord. Ah, how is it possible they should agree, if 
there be a necessity that one contrary must have but one 
only contrary, and cannot have more; and that it be 
found in the mean time, that folly has two contraries, 



THE SOPHISTS. 



333 



which are wisdom and temperance ? Yes, Protagoras has 
agreed to it, whether he will or not. Wisdom and temper- 
ance then must of necessity be but one and the same 
thing, as we found that justice and sanctity were a little 
while ago. Now I ask you ; a man, who does an unjust 
thing, is he prudent in being unjust ? 

For my part, Socrates, said he, I should be ashamed to 
confess it. However, it is the opinion of the people. 

Well, would you have me apply myself to the people, or 
shall I speak to you ? 

I beg you, said he, direct yourself only to the people. 

That is the same, said I, provided you answer me. For 
it imports nothing that you think this or that ; I examine 
only the opinion. 

Upon that Protagoras, disdaining to be thus questioned, 
answered by saying, that the matter was difficult. But 
at last he took his part, and resolved to answer me. Then 
I said, Protagoras, Answer, I pray you, to my first ques- 
tion : do you think any of those who commit injustice are 
prudent ? 

I think there are some, said he. 

Is not to be prudent, to be wise ? 

Yes. 

Is not to be wise, to have right aims, and to take the 
best part even in injustice itself ? 
I grant it. 

But do the unjust take the right side when they suc- 
ceed well, or the contrary ? 
When they succeed well. 

You affirm then, that there are certain good things. 
Certainly. 

Then do you call those things that are profitable to 
men, good? 

Yes, by Jupiter ; and frequently I do not stick to call 
those which are not profitable to men, also good. 

The tone in which he spoke this shewed that he 
was exasperated in a high degree, and ready to be trans- 
ported with anger. Seeing his condition, I wished to 
make the best of him, therefore I interrogated him with 
greater precaution and discretion ; Protagoras, said I, do 
you call good, those things that are profitable to men, or 
those that are no ways profitable ? 



334 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



Not at all, Socrates.* For I know many that are ab- 
solutely useless to men, as certain drinks, certain foods, 
certain medicines, and a thousand others of the same na- 
ture ; and I know others that are useful to them. There 
are some that are indifferent to men, and excellent for 
horses. Some are only useful to cattle, others only to 
dogs. Such a thing is of no use to animals, and very 
good for trees. Moreover, that which is good for the 
root is often bad for the twigs, which if you should cover 
with it, would die. Without going further, oil is the 
greatest enemy to all plants, and to the skin of all cattle, 
but it is very good for the skin of man. It is so true, 
that that which is called good, is various ; that oil itself, 
of which I speak, is good for the exterior parts of man, 
and very bad for the interior. For that reason the phy- 
sicians absolutely forbid the sick to take it, or at least give 
them but very little, and only enough to correct the bad 
smell of certain things which they give them, 

Protagoras having thus spoken, all the company clapped 
their hands, as if he had said wonders : I said to him, 
Protagoras, I am a man naturally very forgetful, and, if 
any body makes long discourses to me, I immediately 
forget the subject of the dispute. Now as if I were some- 
what deaf, and you had a mind to discourse with me, you 
would speak a little louder to me than to others ; even so 
I desire you to accommodate yourself to this fault that I 
have. And since you have to do with a man whose me- 
mory is very bad, shorten your answers, if you intend that 
I should folio v/ you. 

Would you have me abridge my answers? Would 
you have me make them shorter than they ought to 
be? 

No, said I. 

But who shall be judge of it, and to what measure shall 
we make it ? must it be mine or yours ? 

I have always heard, Protagoras, that you were a very 
able man, and that you could render others capable of 
making as long and as short discourses upon all subjects 

* Protagoras judges what Socrates is about, and to avoid being 
caught by him, he throws himself into all these distinctions; 
where, in commenting upon an impertinent science, he puts off the 
chief question. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



335 



as they pleased ; and as no one enlargeth so much as you 
when you think fit, so nobody can explain themselves 
in less words. If then you have a mind that I should 
enjoy your conversation, make use of few words, I con- 
jure you. 

Socrates, said he, I have had to do with many people 
in my life, and even with the most renowned ; you cannot 
but have heard of my disputes : but if I had done, what 
you would have me do now, and had suffered my dis- 
courses to be cut short by my antagonists, I should 
never have obtained such great advantages over them, and 
the name of Protagoras would never have been so famous 
amongst the Greeks. 

By this answer I found that this manner of answering 
precisely to questions did not suit him, and that he 
could never submit to be questioned. Seeing then that 
I could no longer join in that conversation ; Protagoras, 
said I, I do not press you to dispute with me, and to follow 
a method that is disagreeable to you; but if you have a mind 
to speak to me, it is your part to proportion yourself to me, 
and speak so that I may be able to follow you : for as all 
the world says, and as you yourself admit, it is equally 
easy to you to make long or short discourses. For my 
part, it is impossible for me to follow discourses that are 
long. I wish I were capable of it; but no man makes 
himself. And seeing that it is in different to you, you 
ought to show that complaisance towards me, to the end 
that our conversation may continue. At present, farewell: 
I am just going, what pleasure soever I might without doubt 
have taken in your curious discourses : At the same time 
I rose, as having a mind to retire ; but Callias taking me 
by the arm with one hand, and with the other holding me 
by my cloak: "We will not suffer you to depart, Socrates, 
said he ; for if you go, all is done, there will be no more 
conversation. I conjure you then in the name of God to 
stay; for there is nothing I would so willingly hear as 
your dispute : I beg it of you, do us this favour. 

1 answered him standing, as I was ready to go ; Son of 
Hipponicus, I have always admired the love you have 
for science, I admire it still, and I commend you for it. 
Truly I would with all my heart do you the favour you ask 



336 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



me, if you demanded a thing that was possible. But as if 
you should command me to run a race with Crison of 
Himera,* or some of those who run the race six times 
together, or with some courier; I would say, Callias, I 
demand nothing more than to have all the swiftness 
necessary ; I could wish it as much as you, but that is im- 
possible. If you would see Crison and me run, you 
must obtain of him, that he will proportion himself to my 
weakness ; for I cannot go very swift, and it lies on him 
to go slowdy. I tell you the same on this occasion, if you 
have a mind to hear Protagoras and me, desire him 
to answer me in few words, as he began to do : for 
otherwise, what sort of conversation will it be ? I have 
hitherto heard men say, and always believed it, that to 
converse with one's friends, and to make harangues, were 
two very different things. 

Nevertheless, Socrates, said Callias, methinks that Pro- 
tagoras demands a very just thing, seeing he desires only 
to be permitted to speak as much as he shall think fit, and 
that you may have the same liberty ; the condition is 
equal. 

You are deceived, Callias, said Alcibiades, that is not at 
all equal. For Socrates confesses he has not that abun- 
dance, that affluence of words ; that he yields that advan- 
tage to Protagoras. But as for the art of dispute, and to 
know how to question and answer well, I shall be much 
surprised if he yields it either to Protagoras or any one. 
Let Protagoras then confess, in his turn, with the 
same ingenuity, that he is more weak in that point than 
Socrates, that will be enough ; but if he boasts that he will 
oppose him, then let him enter the list with equal arms, 
that is to say, by questioning, and being questioned, with- 
out enlarging and deviating upon every question on pur- 
pose to entangle the discourse. 

As for Socrates, I will engage for him, that he will forget 
nothing ; he jeers us when he says he is forgetful. So it 
seems to me that his demand is reasonable, for every one 
should speak and tell his sentiments in all disputes. 

* This Crison of Himera had won the prize of the race of a furlong 
three times successively. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



337 



At these words of Alcibiades, Critias directing his dis- 
course to Prodicus and Hippias, said, Methinks, my friends, 
that Callias has declared himself openly for Protagoras ; 
and that Alcibiades is one who strives to dispute, and 
to exasperate men's minds. As for us, let us not* fall out 
one with another in taking part, some with Protagoras, and 
others with Socrates : let us rather join to entreat of 
them, not to part in 'such a way, but continue this agree- 
able conversation. 

You speak extremely well, Critias, said Prodicus ; all 
those who are present at a dispute, ought to remain, but 
not be indifferent; for these two things ought not to be con- 
founded : to be neuter, is to give to each party all the at- 
tention which he requires ; and not to be indifferent; is 
when one reserves his vote for him who is in the right. 
For my part, if you would follow my advice, Protagoras, 
and you, Socrates, here is a thing wherein I would willingly 
have you agree, that is, to dispute and not to quarrel ; for 
friends dispute between themselves for their better instruc- 
tion, and enemies quarrel to destroy one another. By this 
means your conversation would be very agreeable and very 
profitable to us all. First the advantage, which on your 
side you would reap therefrom, would be, I do not say our 
praise, but our esteem : now esteem is a sincere homage, 
which causes a soul to be sincerely touched and affected ; 
whereas praise is frequently but a vain and deceitful 
sound, which the mouth pronounces contrary to the pro- 
per sentiments of the heart. And we, the auditors should 
get thereby, not that which is only a certain pleasure, but 
a real and sensible satisfaction.* For satisfaction is the 
contentment of the mind, which is instructed, and which 
acquires wisdom and prudence ; whereas pleasure is only, 
properly speaking the tickling of the senses. 

Most of the auditors highly applauded the discourse of 
Prodicus, and the wise Hippias afterwards beginning 
said : My friends, I look upon you all, as so many kins- 
men, friends, and citizens, of one and the same city; not 

* By this passage it appears, that the Greeks made some differeDce 
between ev^paivec^ai and tfcea&ai, that by the first they meant the 
delights of the mind, and by the other pleasures of the body. This 
was not always exactly observed : but these words are determined 
to this sense by their root. 

2 G 



338 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



by law but by nature, for by nature every thing is tied to 
its like. But the law, which is a tyrant over men, force th 
and layeth violent hands upon nature on many occasions. 
It would be a very shameful thing, if we, who know the 
nature of things perfectly, and who pass for the ablest 
among the Greeks, should come into Athens, which for 
science ought to be looked upon as the august Prytaneum 
of Greece, and assembled in the greatest and richest 
house of the city, do nothing there worthy of our repu- 
tation, than to spend our time in wrangling about trifles, 
like the most ignorant of men. I conjure you then, Pro- 
tagoras and Socrates, and I advise you, as if we were 
your arbitrators, to adopt a temperate and medium 
course. And Socrates, do not you stick too rigorously to 
the plain and concise method of a dialogue, unless Pro- 
tagoras will acquiesce therewith. Leave him some liberty, 
and slacken the reins to discourse, that it may appear to 
us more magnificent and sublime. And you Protagoras, do 
not swell the sails of your eloquence, so as to carry you 
into the broad ocean, and lose sight of shore. There is a 
medium between those two extremes. Therefore, if you 
will give ear to me, you shall chose a moderator, or 
president, who shall oblige you both to keep within 
bounds. 

This expedient pleased all the company. Callias told me 
again, that he would not suffer me to go, and they pressed 
me to name the president myself : I declined it, saying it 
would be a shame for us to have a moderator of our dis- 
courses. For, said I, he whom we shall choose, shall be 
either our inferior or our equal. If he be our inferior, it is 
not just that the most incapable, should give laws to the 
most learned ; and if he be our equal, he will think as well 
as we, and that choice will become altogether useless. 

But it will be said, you shall name one who is more learned 
than you ; it is easy to say so, but in truth I do not think 
it possible to find a more able man than Protagoras : 
and if you should choose one who is not so, and whom 
you pretend, however, to be more able, you yourselves see 
what injury you do to a man of that merit, in subjecting 
him to such a moderator. But, as for my part, that in no 
way concerns me, it is not my interest that makes me speak, 
I am ready to renew our conversation to satisfy you. If 



THE SOPHISTS. 



339 



Protagoras will not answer, let him question ; I will 
answer, and at the same time endeavour to show him 
the manner how I think every man who is questioned 
ought to answer. When I have answered him as often as 
he shall have thought fit to question me, he will give me 
leave to question him in my turn, and he will reply to me 
after the same manner. If he scruples to answer me, 
then you and I will join to beg that favour of him, which 
you desire of me at present; which is, not to break the 
conversation ; and for that there is no necessity to name a 
moderator, for instead of one, we will have many, for you 
shall all be moderators. 

All said that this was what ought to be done. 

Protagoras was not much for it ; but was obliged to 
submit, and to promise that he would question first, and 
that when he should be weary of questioning, he should 
permit me to do so, and should answer in his turn pre- 
cisely to the question. 

Then he began after this manner. 

Methinks, Socrates, that the best part of erudition con- 
sists in being very well versed in reading the poets : * 
that is, to understand all they say so well, as to be able 
to distinguish what is well said, and what is ill said ; to 
give reasons for it, and to make every body sensible of it. 
Do not fear that 1 am going to remove myself far off from 
the subject of our dispute, my question shall rest upon vir- 
tue. All the difference will be, that I shall transport you 
into the country of poetry. Simonides says in some place, 
directing his discourse to Scopas, the son of Creon, the 
Thessalonian : " It is very difficult to become truly virtu- 
ous, and to be in virtue as a cube ; that is to say, that 
neither our carriage, our actions, or our thoughts, shall 
shake us, or ever draw us from that state of mind." Do 
you remember that passage, or shall I relate it to you at 
length ? 

There is no need, said I, I remember it, and have studied 
it with great care. 

* The Sophists boasted that they understood all the poets per- 
fectly well : we are about to see the difference iu that point be- 
tween a Sophist and a man who is truly learned. 



340 



PROTAGORAS; OR, 



You did right ; but do you think that piece is well or ill 

done ? 

It seems to me to be perfectly well done ; it is full of 
sense. 

But would you call it well done, if the poet contradicts 
himself ? 

No, certainly. 

Oh ! said he, another time examine things better, and 
look into them more narrowly. 

As for that, my dear Protagoras, said I, I believe I have 
sufficiently examined it. 

Since you have so well examined it, you know then that 
he says in the sequel : " The saying of Pittacus does not 
please me at all, though Pittacus was one of the sages, for 
he says that it is difficult to become virtuous." Do you 
comprehend that the same man said this, after what he 
had said but a little before ? 

Yes, I do. 

And do you think that these two passages agree? 

Yes, Protagoras; said I, and at the same time, lest he 
should go upon some other thing, I asked him, Do not you 
find that they agree ? 

How shall I find that a man agrees with himself when he 
says contrary things ? At first he fixes his principle, that 
it is difficult to become virtuous. And in a minute after 
he forgets that principle ; and in relating the same motto, 
spoken in his own sense by Pittacus, that it is very difficult 
to become virtuous ; he blames him, and says in plain 
terms, that that sentiment does not please him in any wise, 
and yet it is his own. Thus when he condemns an author, 
who said nothing but what he had said himself, he mani- 
festly cuts his own throat : He must of necessity speak ill 
either there or here. 

He had no sooner spoken, but a great noise was raised, 
by the auditors applauding him. As for me, I confess it, 
like a fencer who had received a hard blow, I was so 
stunned that I neither saw nor heard ; my brains being 
turned with the noise they made, as also with what I heard 
him say. In fine, for I must tell you the truth, to gain 
time to dive into the meaning of the poet, I turned myself 
towards Prodicus, and directing my discourse to him ; 



THE SOPHISTS. 



341 



Prodicus, said I, Simonides is your countryman ; it is 
therefore just that you should come to his assistance, and 
I call you to it, as Homer feigns that Scamandre being 
vigorously pressed upon by Achilles, calls Siniois to his 
succour, saying to him : 

" Let you and I repel this terrible enemy. 5 ' 
I say the same to you, let us take care lest Simonides be 
turned topsy-turvy by Protagoras. The defence of this 
poet depends on your ability, which enabled you to distin- 
guish so subtilly between will and desire, as two different 
things. It is that same ability which has furnished you 
with so many fine things that you just now taught us. See 
then if you can be of my opinion, for it does not at all 
appear to me that Simonides contradicts himself. But 
tell me first, I pray: Do you think, that to be, and 
to become, are one and the same thing, or two different 
things ? 

Two very different things, assuredly, answered Prodicus. 
In the first verse then, Simonides declares his thoughts 
in saying, that it is very difficult to become truly virtuous. 
You say true, Socrates. 

And he blames Pittacus, not, as Protagoras thinks, for 
having said the same thing as he, but for having said 
something very different from it. In effect, Pittacus has 
not said as Simonides did, that it is difficult to become vir- 
tuous, but to be virtuous. Now, my dear Protagoras, to 
be and to become,* are not the same thing, even in the 
judgment of Prodicus. And if they be not the same 
thing, Simonides does in no wise contradict himself. Per- 
haps then Prodicus himself and many others, entering into 
Simonides' s thoughts, might say with Hesiod, " that it is 
very difficult to become virtuous. "+ For the gods have 
placed labour before virtue ; but when a man is come to 
the pinnacle where it dwells, then though it be very diffi- 
cult, it is easy to possess it. 

Prodicus , having heard me speak thus, applauded ex- 
tremely. But Protagoras answering said, Socrates, your 
explanation is still more vicious than the text, and the 
remedy worse than the disease. 

* For to be denotes a fixed state, and to become denotes an alte- 
ration, or a going from one state to another. 

t It is a passage of Hesiod in his Poem : Works, v. 287. 
2 g 2 



342 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



Then I have done very ill, according to your reckoning, 
Protagoras, answered I; and I am a pleasant physician 
indeed; seeing that in designing to cure a distemper, I 
make it worse. 

It is just as I tell you, Socrates. 

But how so ? 

The poet, said he, would be impertinent and ignorant, 
if he had spoken of virtue as of a thing which is vile and 
despicable, or easy to possess, for everybody agrees that 
it is very difficult.* 

Being amazed at this quibble; in truth, said I, Prota- 
goras, we are very happv that Prodicus is present at our 
dispute. For I fancy that you are very well persuaded 
that the science of Prodicus is one of the divine sciences, 
as you call those of the ancient times, and not only as old 
as Simonides, but also much more ancient. You are cer- 
tainly very accomplished in many other sciences; but as 
for that, you seem to me but little instructed in it. For 
my part, I may say that I have some tincture of it, be- 
cause I am one of Prodicus 5 s disciples. Perhaps you are 
not aware that Simonides does not gives the word difficult f 
the sense which you give it; and it may be with that word 
as with those of dreadful, terrible. J At all times when I 

* Protagoras changes sides here, according to the custom of the 
sophists ; and instead of demonstrating the pretended contradiction 
of Simonides, he throws himself upon Hesiod, who says, that it is easy 
to possess virtue ; and in that he puts a very ridiculous quibble upon 
him. This is the character of the sophists. They were very ignorant 
at the bottom ; but with some reading, which had spoiled their minds, 
and which they supported with abundance of impudence, they made 
themselves admired by fools. 

t At all times, when a word seems to signify something- contrary to 
the design of the poet, all the different significations which that word 
can have in the passage in question, ought to be examined into, This 
is of very great use in criticism, as Aristotle hath well observed. 
Socrates makes use of it here in appearance to defend Simonides, but 
in effect to make these sophists perfectly ridiculous. 

\ Socrates cunningly makes the impertinence of those sophists 
appear here, in the criticism which they made upon words : for exam- 
ple, upon the word deivbg, they would not have it used in a good 
sense, because it was never used but in speaking of things that are 
bad, as poverty, prison, sickness. But these sophists ought to have 
observed this difference, that this word is always truly taken in an ill 
sense, when applied to inanimate things, but that it may be taken in 
a good sense when applied to persons. Homer, who understood and 
wrote his language better than all those sophists, has more than once 



THE SOPHISTS. 



343 



make use of them in a good part, and say; for example, to 
praise you ; Protagoras is a terrible man, Prodicus always 
finds fault, and asks me, if I am not ashamed to call that 
which is laudable, tenible: for, says he, that word is 
always taken in an ill sense. This is so true, that you 
shall find nobody who says, terrible riches, terrible peace, 
terrible health: but every one says, a terrible sickness, 
a terrible war, a terrible poverty, that word always de- 
noting evil, but never good. How do you know but that 
perhaps by the epithet difficult,* Simonides and all the 
inhabitants of the isle of Ceos intend to express something 
that is bad, vexatious, or the like. Let us ask Prodicus. 
For it is reasonable to ask of him an explication of the 
terms which Simonides made use of. Tell us then, Pro- 
dicus, what would Simonides say by that word difficult ? 
He means bad. 

Behold then, said I, my dear Prodicus, why Simonides 
blames Pittacus for having said that it is difficult to be 
virtuous, imagining, without doubt, that he meant thereby 
that it is a bad thing to have virtue. 

Do you think, Socrates, answered Prodicus, that Simo- 
nides meant any other thing, and that his aim was not to 
upbraid Pittacus, who neither knew the force nor the dif- 
ference of terms, but spoke coarsely, like a man born at 
Lesbos, f and accustomed to barbarous language ? 

Do you, Protagoras, understand what Prodicus says ? 
and have you anything to answer ? 

joined deivbc;, with alcoioq, venerable. As in the beginning of the 
8th book of the Odysses, in speaking of Ulyssus ; for ieivbg, as our 
word terrible, signifies often, astonishing, extraordinary, &c. 

* The snare which Socrates lays here for the sophists would be 
too plain, if the word x a ^ S7r 0Q difficult, did never signify bad, vexa- 
tious, but it is taken in this last sense by all the poets. Homer him- 
self has used it in that sense, as in the beginning of that fine Ode of 
Anacreon, %a\£7rov to fir) OiXrjcrai. 6 It is a vexatious thing not to 
love.' It is that which deceives Prodicus, whose ignorance he makes 
to appear in going about to persuade him, that perhaps it was the 
inhabitants of the isle of Ceos, who used that word in this sense. 
Prodicus being deceived, would value himself upon this remark, and 
acting the great critic, he says that Simonides reproaches Pittacus, 
who was a man of Lesbos, whose language was gross and barbarous, 
for having used that word ignorantly. Protagoras is a little more 
cunning. 

t The language of the Lesbians was barbarous. Rudeness of lan- 
guage usually accompanies clownishness of manners. 



314 



PROTAGORAS; OR, 



I am very far from your opinion, Prodicus^ said Prota- 
goras ; and I take it for a truth, that Simonides understood 
nothing more by that word difficult, than what we all 
understand; and that he meant not that it was bad, but 
that it was not easy; and that it must be acquired with 
much pains and labour. 

To tell you the truth, Protagoras, said I, I doubt not in the 
least but that Prodicus knows very well what Simonides' s 
meaning is. But he plays upon you a little, and lays a 
snare for you, to see if you will fall into it, or if you have 
the cunning to avoid it, and to maintain your opinion. 
For here is an indisputable proof that Simonides does not 
call difficult that which is bad, because he adds immedi- 
ately after, and God alone possesses that precious treasure. 
For if he had meant that it is a bad thing to be virtuous, 
he would never have added, that God alone has virtue; he 
would have hesitated to make so bad a present alone to the 
Divinity. If he had done it, Prodicus, far from calling 
Simonides a divine man,* would not fail to call him a 
blasphemer and a profligate. But since you are something 
curious to know if I am well versed in that which you call 
the reading of the poets, I am going to tell you the mean- 
ing of that small poem of Simonides ; or if you had rather 
explain it to me, I will willingly listen to you. 

Protagoras hearing me, would willingly take me at my 
word: But Prodicus and Hippias, with the rest, besought 
me, not to defer giving them that satisfaction. 

I am going, said I, to endeavour to explain to you 

* Here is a very small fault ; yet it fails not to corrupt the text 
extremely, and to alter the sense of it. To follow the letter, we should 
have rendered it, very far from calling him a man of Ceos ; for the 
Greek says, Kai ovdctfiug icelov, and not in the least a man of Ceos. 
But there is nobody but will agree that it ought to be read Kai ovcafitig 
Stiov, and not in the least a divine man, for Simonides was called 
so. What sense would a man of Ceos bear in opposition to blas- 
phemer and profligate ? But it will be said, the piety of the men of 
Ceos might be so recommended ; and so famous, that perhaps they 
might say a man of Ceos, for a pious man. It was quite contrary. 
The inhabitants of the isle of Ceos were an impious people, witness the 
law they made to put to death all the old men above 60 years of age ; 
and that when they were besieged by the Athenians, they put to death 
all those who were not able to bear arms ; which struck the Athe- 
nians with so much horror, that they raised the siege to stop the cur- 
rent of such horrible impiety.. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



345 



my sentiments upon that piece of Simonides. You must 
know, then, that philosophy is very ancient among the 
Greeks, particularly in Crete and Lacedemon.* There arc- 
more sophists there than in all the world beside ; but they 
conceal themselves, and make as if they were simple and 
ignorant people, just like the sophists you spoke of, that 
it may not be discovered that they surpass all the Greeks 
in learning and science : That they may be only looked 
upon as brave men, and only superior to others by their 
courage and contempt of death. For they are persuaded, 
that if they were known for what they are, everybody 
would apply themselves to that study, and the art would 
be no longer valued. Thus by concealing their ability, 
they deceive through all the towns of Greece, those who 
affect to follow the Lacedemonian way of living. The 
most part, in imitation of them, cut their ears, have only 
a cord for their girdle, use the hardest exercises, and wear 
their garments so short, that they do not cover half their 
body. For they persuade themselves, that it is by such 
austerities, that the Lacedemonians have made themselves 
masters of Greece : and the Lacedemonians are so jealous of 
the science of their sophists, that when they have a mind 
to discourse with them freely, and are weary of seeing 
them in secret and by stealth, they turn out all those apes 
that counterfeit them, that is to say, all those strangers 
they find in their towns, f and then discourse with the 
sophists without admitting any stranger to their conver- 
sations. Neither do they suffer their young people to 
travel into other towns, for fear they should forget what 
they have learnt : and the same thing is done in Crete. 
Among those great teachers, there are not only men, but 
also women : and a certain mark that I tell you the truth, 

* He put Crete with Lacedenion, because Lycurgus had brought 
back from Crete to Lacedernon many of the Laws that were made 
by Minos, and had drawn from thence the idea of the government 
which he had established. See the remarks of Plutarch upon the 
Life of Lycurgus, torn. i. p. 199. 

f Lycurgus shut up the gates of Sparta against all strangers whose 
curiosity only drove them thither, and came not for any advantage 
or profit : he also forbid travelling. Plutarch gives very fine reasons 
for it, p. 248. 



346 



PROTAGORAS; OR, 



and that the Lacedemonians are perfectly well instructed in 
philosophy and learning, is, that if any one will discourse 
wth the most pitiful fellow of the Lacedemonians, he will 
at first take him for an idiot ; but in the sequel of the con- 
versation, that idiot will find means pertinently to plant a 
short and quick repartee, full of sense and strength, which 
he will shoot like an arrow from a bow. Insomuch, that 
he who had so bad an opinion of him, will find himself 
but a child in comparison to him. Also abundance of 
people in our age, and in past ages, have conceived that to 
Laconize, is rather to study philosophy than to work, being 
well persuaded, and justly, that it belongs only to a man 
who is well instructed and well educated to speak such 
fine sentences. Of this number were Thales of Miletum, 
Pittacus of Mitylene, Bias of Priene, our Solon, Cleobulas 
of Lynde, Myson of Cheyn, a town of Laconia, and Chilon 
of Lacedemon. All those sages were zealous followers of 
the Lacedemonian learning, as appears still by some of 
their works that have been preserved. Being one day 
altogether, they consecrated to Apollo, as the first fruits 
of their wisdom, those two sentences which are in every- 
one's mouth, and caused them to be written in letters of 
gold upon the portals of the temple of Delphos : ( Know 
thyself, and know nothing too much. 5 

Why is it that I speak of those pieces of antiquity ? It 
is to let you see that the characteristic of the ancient 
philosophy was a certain laconic brevity. Now, one of 
the best sentences that was attributed to Pittacus, and 
which the sages most boasted of, is deservedly this, " It 
is difficult to become virtuous." Simonides, then, as 
emulating Pittacus in that career of wisdom; conceived 
that if he could overthrow this fine sentence, and triumph 
over it as over a champion that had acquired universal 
applause, he would thereby obtain immortal renown. It 
is this sentence then he carps at, and it is with a design 
to destroy it, that he hath composed this whole poem, 
at least I believe so ; let us examine him together, and see 
if I am right. 

First, the beginning of this poem would be senseless, if 
to express only that ' it is difficult to become virtuous,' the 
poet should say, It is difficult, ' I confess, to become vir- 



THE SOPHISTS. 



347 



tuous ; for that word, / confess, is added without any sort 
of reason, unless Ave suppose that Simonides had consi- 
dered the sentence of Pittacus, in order to quarrel with it. 
Pittacus having said, "That it is difficult to be virtuous 
Simonides opposeth it, and corrects that principle in say- 
ing, " That it is difficult to become virtuous, and that it is 
truly difficult." For observe well, that he does not say that 
it is difficult to become truly virtuous ; as if among the 
virtuous there might be some who were truly virtuous, 
and others who were virtuous without being truly so : 
that would be a foolish discourse, and not worthy of a 
wise man, like Simonides. Therefore there must needs 
have been a transposition in this verse, and the word truly 
must be transposed and put out of its place to answer 
Pittacus. For it is as if there were a kind of dialogue 
between Simonides and Pittacus. The latter saying, "My 
friends, it is difficult to be virtuous." Simonides answers ; 
" Pittacus, you advance a false principle, for it is not diffi- 
cult to be virtuous : but it is difficult, I confess, to become 
virtuous, so as not to be shaken, and to be firm in virtue, 
as a cube on its basis ; and that neither our carriage, our 
thoughts, nor our actions, can draw upon us the least 
reproach or blame ; that is truly difficult." Thus it is 
plain that he has reason to put the words, I confess, there: 
and that the word truly is very well placed at the end. 
The whole sequel of the poem proves that this is the true 
sense ; and it would be easy to make it appear that all its 
parts agree together, that they are perfectly well composed, 
and that all possible grace and elegance is found in them, 
with abundance of strength and sense ; but it would carry 
us too far to run through it ; let us content ourselves to 
examine the idea of the poem in general, and the aim of 
the poet to make it appear that he only proposes to him- 
self by all that poem, to refute that sentence of Pittacus. 

This is so true, that a little after, as if to give a reason 
for what he had said, " That to become virtuous, is a 
thing truly difficult;" he adds, " However that it is possible 
for some time ; but after one is become so, to persist in 
that state, and to be virtuous, as you say ; Pittacus, that 
is impossible, and above the strength of man : this happy 
privilege is only for God alone, and it is not humanly pos- 



348 



PROTAGORAS ; OR 



sible for a man to remain firm and unmoved when an in- 
surmountable calamity falls upon him." 

But what sort of people are they which insupportable 
calamities afflict, so that they are no longer themselves ! 
For example : Of those who sit at the helm of a ship. 
It is evident that they are not the ignorant, or the idiots, 
for the ignorant are cast down even in a calm. As one 
does not throw to the ground a man that is lying upon it, 
but one that is standing upright ; so calamities only deject 
and change an able man, and they never alter one who 
is ignorant. A terrible tempest, which agitates of a sud- 
den, astonishes and overcomes a pilot ; irregular and 
stormy seasons astonish and overcome the husbandman ; a 
wise physician is confounded by accidents, that he could 
not foresee with all his art of physic : in a word, it is the 
good that happen to become wicked, as another poet tes- 
tifies in this verse : <e The good are sometimes good, and 
sometimes wicked." 

But it never happens to the wicked to become wicked, 
he is always so. It is only the learned, the good, and the 
wise, to whom it happens to be wicked when a frightful 
and sudden calamity overtakes them. And it is humanly 
impossible that it can be otherwise. And you, Pittacus, 
say, "that it is difficult to be good;" say rather, "that it is 
difficult to become so," and yet that it is possible : But to 
persist in that state, is what is impossible, for you must 
agree that every man who does good, is good ; and that 
every man who does ill, is wicked. What is it then to do 
good : for example, in learning ? and who is the man that 
you call good in that ? Is it not he who has knowledge, 
and who is learned ? What is it that makes a goodphysician ? 
Is it not the knowledge to cure or comfort the sick? And 
is not that which makes an ill physician, his want of skill 
to cure ? Whom, then, shall we call a bad physician ? 
Is it not evident that a man must in the first place be a 
physician, before we can give him that name? and that in 
the second place he must be a good physician, for it is only 
the good who is capable of becoming a bad physician? In 
effect, we who are ignorant in physic, though we should 
commit faults in that art, yet we should never become bad 
physicians, seeing we are no physicians at all. 



THE SOPHISTS. 349 

He that does not know what architecture is, can never 
properly he what is called a bad architect, for he is no 
architect : and so in all other arts. Every man, then, who 
is no physician, whatever faults he commits in acting the 
physician, is not, however, in a strict sense, a had phy- 
sician. It is the same of the virtuous man ; he may 
become vicious, without doubt, whether it be by age 
labour, sickness, or by any other accident ; but he cannot 
become vicious, unless he was virtuous before. Therefore 
the only scope of the poet in this work is to make it 
appear that it is not possible to be, and to persevere always 
in that state ; but that it is possible to become virtuous, as 
it is possible to become vicious. The virtuous are abso- 
lutely those whom the gods love and favour. Now the 
sequel of the poem makes it plainly appear, that all this 
is said against Pittacus. For he adds : " Wherefore I shall 
not fatigue myself to seek that which is impossible to find, 
and I shall not consume my life in flattering myself with 
the vain hopes of seeing a man without blame and entirely 
innocent amongst us mortals, who live upon what the earth 
presents to us. If I were happy enough to find him, I 
should quickly tell you." And in all his poem he carps so 
much at this sentence of Pittacus, that he says a little 
after : " For my part, every man who does not a shameful 
action voluntarily, I praise him, I love him. I do not 
speak of necessity, that is stronger than the gods them- 
selves: 5 ' all this is also spoken against Pittacus. In effect 
Simonides was too well taught to refer this voluntarily to 
him, who commits shameful actions, as if there were people 
who did ill voluntarily. For I am persuaded that of all 
the philosophers, there is not one to be found, who says 
that men sin voluntarily. They all know that those who 
commit crimes, commit them whether they will or not. 
Therefore Simonides does not say, that he will praise him 
who does not crimes voluntarily ; but this voluntarily has 
reference to himself. He says, that he will praise him 
voluntarily, and with all his heart : for he was persuaded 
that it frequently happens that an honest and a good man 
is forced to love and to praise certain people. For example, 
a man has a very unreasonable father and mother, and 
unjust and cruel country, or some other such like thins:. 

2 H 



350 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



If that happens to a wicked man what does he ? First, 
he is very glad of it, and afterwards his chief care is to 
complain publicly, and to make the ill humour of his 
father and mother, and the injustice of his country known 
every where, in order thereby to free himself from the just 
reproaches that might be made against him for the little 
care he has of them, and for having abandoned them ; and 
under this very notion, he multiplies the subjects of his 
complaint, and adds a voluntary hatred to that forced 
enmity. The conduct of an honest man is far different on 
such occasions : his sole care is to hide and cover the faults 
of his father and country ; far from complaining of them, 
he hath so much command of himself, as always to speak 
well of them. If any crying injustice has forced him 
to be angry with them, he himself is their mediator to 
himself ; he argues with himself for them and reposes to 
himself ail the reasons that can be brought to appease him, 
and bring him back to his duty; and he is never at 
peace until being master of his resentment, he has 
restored them his love, and can praise them as before. I 
am persuaded that Simonides has frequently found him- 
self under an obligation to praise a tyrant, or some other 
considerable person.* He has done so in spite of him- 
self. This then is the language he speaks to Pittacus. 
" When I blame you, Pittacus, it is not because I am 
naturally inclined to blame ; no one shall ever see me 
quarrel with any person, who may be of use to his country. 
I do not love to find fault, for the race of fools is so 
numerous, that if any man should take upon him to re- 
prehend them, he would never have done. We must take 
all that for good and fine, wherein we find no shameful 
mixture, or scandalous blot." When he says, we must take 
all that for good, &c. It is not the same as if he said, 
we must take all that for white, wherein we find no mix- 
ture of black, for that would be altogether ridiculous. 
But he would have them to understand, that he contents 

* He speaks this, because Simonides had kept a friendly corres- 
pondence with Pausanias, King of Lacedemon, who gained the 
battle of Platsea, and with Hiero the wisest of all the ancient 
tyrants. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



351 



himself with a mediocrity, and that he reprehends and 
blames nothing wherein this mediocrity is found. For we 
must not hope to meet with perfection in this world. 
<c Wherefore, saith he, I do not look for a man who is al- 
together innocent among all those who are nourished by 
the products of the earth. Were I happy enough to find 
him, I should not hide him from you, but should quickly 
shew him to you. Till then, I shall praise no man as 
being perfect. It sufficeth me that a man be in this laud- 
able mediocrity, and that he do no ill. These are the 
people whom I love and praise. 55 And as he speaks to 
Pittacus, who is of Mitylene, he speaks in the language of 
the Mitylenes, " voluntarily I praise them, and Hove them.' 5 
This word voluntarily has no reference to what precedes, 
but to what follows. He means that he praises those 
people of his own accord, whereas there are others whom 
he praises of necessity. "Thus then, Pittacus, continues 
he, if you had kept yourself in that mediocrity, and told 
us things that were probable, I should never have repre- 
hended you, but in lieu thereof you impose upon us for 
truths, principles that are manifestly false, and which is 
worse, about very essential things ; wherefore I contradict 
you. 55 Behold then, my dear Prodicus, and my dear Pro- 
tagoras, what, uTmy opinion, is the meaning and the 
scope of this poem of Simonides. 

JHippias answering, said, Indeed Socrates you have per- 
fectly well explained the hidden meaning of that poem : I 
have also a short speech to make to you to confirm your 
explication. If you please I will communicate my dis- 
coveries to you, 

That is very well, said Alcibiades, interrupting him, but 
it must be another time. At present it is reasonable that 
Protagoras and Socrates make an end of their dispute, and 
that they stand to the treaty they have made. If Prota- 
goras inclines still to question; Socrates must answer. 
And if he has a mind to answer in his turn, Socrates must 
question. 

I leave it to Protagoras 5 s choice, said I, let him choose 
which is most agreeable to him. But if he would be ad- 
vised by me, we should leave for the present the farther 
consideration of the poets and poetry. I confess that I 
should be better pleased to dive with Protagoras into the 
depths of the first question I proposed, for in conversing 



352 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



thus of poetry, we do as ignorant and vulgar people, 
when they feast one another ; for not being able to dis- 
course among themselves of fine things, and to maintain 
conversation, they are silent, and hire at a great charge 
singers and players upon flutes to hide their ignorance 
and clownishness.* Whereas when honest men, who have 
been well instructed, eat together, they do not send for 
singers, dancers, and players ; they find no trouble to en- 
tertain one another without all these fopperies and vain 
amusements. They reciprocally speak and hear, and pre- 
fer the harmony of such discourse to all music. It ought 
to be the same in this kind of conversation, especially, 
when it is between people who value themselves as most of 
those do who are here ; they have no occasion for strange 
voices, nor for poets, of whom they cannot ask a reason for 
what they say, and to whom most of those who cite them 
attribute some one sense, some another, without being 
ever able to come to an agreement. That is the reason 
why able men ought to avoid those dissertations upon 
the poets, and entertain themselves in sounding and exa* 
ming one another, by their discourse, and give a proof of the 
progress they have made in the study of wisdom. That is 
the example which, I think, you and I ought rather to 
follow. Leaving the poets then, let us discourse, or ijhl 
may so say, let us fence together to see how far we 
are in the right. If you have a mind to question me, I 
am ready to answer; if not, give me leave to propose the 
question, and let us endeavour to bring the enquiry which 
has been interrupted, to a satisfactory termination. 

When I had spoken thus, Protagoras knew not which 
part to take, and made no answer. Wherefore Alcibiades 
turning towards Callias, said, Protagoras does well in not 
declaring what he will do, whether he will answer or pro- 
pound. 

Let him enter the list, said Callias; or else say 
why he will not, that we may know his reasons, and 
that thereupon Socrates may dispute with another, or 

* The musicians and players upon instruments were introduced to 
feasts by unintellectual peeple who were incapable of entertaining 
themselves. Does not the violent passion that is now observed for 
music proceed from the same defect ? Perhaps we sing only because 
we cannot discourse. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



353 



that some one of the company may dispute with the 
first who shall offer himself. 

Then Protagoras being ashamed, as I thought, to hear 
Alcibiades talk so, and to see himself solicited by Callias, 
and by almost all those who were present, at last resolved 
to enter into dispute, and desired me to propose questions 
to him. 

I began to say to him, Protagoras, do not think I will 
converse with you upon any other design than to search 
into the bottom of some matters whereof I still daily doubt; 
for I am persuaded that Homer hath very well said, " Two 
men who go together see things best, for one sees what 
the other sees not." In effect : we, poor mortals, when 
together, have a greater facility for all that we have 
a mind to say, do, or think. A man alone, though 
never so able and witty, seeks always some one to whom 
to communicate his thoughts, and assist him until he 
has found what he sought. Behold also why I con- 
verse more willingly with you than with another, being 
very well persuaded that you have better examined than 
others all the matters that an honest man ought in 
duty to search into the bottom of, and particularly all that 
relates to virtue. Alas ! to whom should one address him- 
self rather than to you ? First, you value yourself on be- 
ing a very honest man; and besides that, you have an ad- 
vantage that most honest men have not, that is, that being 
virtuous, you can also make those virtuous who frequent 
your company: You are certain of doing it, and rely so much 
upon your wisdom, that whereas the other sophists hide 
and disguise their art, you make public profession, in all 
the cities of Greece, that you are a sophist; you give your- 
self out publicly to be a master in the sciences and in 
virtue ; you are the first who have set a value upon your- 
self, and put a price upon your precepts : Why then should 
we not call you to the examination of things that we 
enquire after, and which you know so well ? Why should 
we not be impatient to ask you questions, and to commu- 
cate our doubts to you ? For my part, I cannot refrain, 
and ardently desire that you would explain to me the 
things that I have already asked, and such as I have yet 
to ask. 

2 h 2 



354 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



The first question I proposed to you, I remember it very 
well, was, if science, temperance, valour, justice, and sanc- 
tity; I say, if these five names are applicable to one 
and the same subject, or if every one of these denote a 
particular essence, a thing which has its distinct proper- 
ties, and is different from the other four. You answered 
me, that these names were not applicable to the one only 
and the same subject, but that each of them served to 
denote a thing separate and distinct, and that they were 
all parts of virtue, not similar parts, as those of gold, all 
which resemble the whole mass whereof they are parts, 
but dissimilar parts, as the parts of the face which are all 
parts of it without any resemblance fc to each other, and 
without resembling the whole, whereof they are parts, and 
which have every one their different properties and func- 
tions. Tell me then if you are still of this opinion ; and 
if you have altered it, explain your present thoughts to 
me ; for if you have changed your opinion, I will not hold 
you with rigour, but leave you an entire liberty to retract ; 
and shall not in the least be surprised that you have pro- 
pounded those principles at first, as it were to try me. 

But I tell you most seriously, Socrates, answered Pro- 
tagoras, the five qualities which you have named, are 
parts of virtue. To speak the truth, there are four of 
them which have some resemblance to each other : but 
valour is very different from all the rest, and by this you 
may easily know that I tell you the truth ; you shall find 
an infinite number of people who are very unjust, very 
impious, very debauched, and very ignorant ; and yet at 
the same time they are valiant to admiration, 

I stop you there, said I, for I must examine what you 
have advanced. Do you call those who are bad, valiant 1 
Is that your meaning ? 

Yes, and those who venture headlong where others 
fear to go. 

Let us see then, my dear Protagoras, do not you call 
virtue a fine thing ? And do not you boast of teach- 
ing it as something that is fine ? 

Yes, and as something that is very fine, otherwise I have 
lost my judgment. 

But is that virtue fine in part and ugly in part, or is it 
altogether fine ? 



THE SOPHISTS. 



35.5 



It is altogether fine. 

Do not you find some people who throw themselves 
headlong into wells and deep waters ? 
Yes, our divers. 

Do they do it because it is a trade they are accustomed 
to and expert in, or for some other reason ? 

Because it is a trade they are expert at. 

Who are those who fight well on horse-back? Are they 
such as know how to manage a horse well, or those who 
cannot ? 

Doubtless those who can manage a horse 

Is it not the same with those who fight with a buckler ? 

Yes, certainly, and in all other things, those who are 
expert in them are more brave and courageous than 
those who are not, and the same troops, after having been 
well disciplined and inured to war, are far different from 
what they were before. 

But, . said I, you have seen people who without having 
been thus disciplined, are notwithstanding very brave, 
and very courageous upon all occasions ? 

Yes, certainly, I have seen some, and these most brave. 

Do not you call those people who are so brave and so 
bold, valiant men ? 

You do not consider, Socrates, what you say; then 
valour would be an ugly and shameful thing, for such men 
are fools. 

But I say, have not you called bold men, valiant men ? 
Yes, so far. 

And nevertheless now these bold men seem to you to be 
fools 5 and not valiant ; and just now, quite the contrary, 
you then thought the most learned, and the most wise to 
be the most bold. If they are the most bold, then accord- 
ing to your principles, they are the most valiant; and 
consequently science is the same thing as valour. 

You do not well remember, Socrates, what I answered 
to ; you demanded if valiant men were bold, I answered, 
yes. But you did not at all ask me if bold men were 
valiant ; for if you had, I should have made a distinction, 
and have told you that they are not at all so.* Hitherto 

* It is an evasion of the sophist drawn from the rule of universal 
affirmative propositions, which are not convertible but by adding 
some restriction to the attribute, which become the subject. 



356 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



my principle, that the valiant are bold, remains in its full 
strength, and you have not been able to convict it of any 
falsehood. You make it appear very well that the same 
persons are more bold when they are instructed and well 
trained, than before they had learned any thing ; and that 
disciplined troops are more bold than those that are not 
disciplined ; and from thence you are pleased to conclude, 
that valour and science are but one and the same thing. 
By this way of arguing, you will also find that strength 
and science are but one and the same thing. For first, you 
will ask me after your usual way of gradation. Are the 
strong, puissant ?* I should answer you, yes. Then you 
would add, are those who have learned to wrestle more 
puissant than those who have not learned ? And the same 
wrestler, is he not more pui scant after having learned, than 
he was before he knew any thing of that exercise 1 I 
should still answer, yes. And from those two things which 
I should have granted, you would believe, that by making 
use of the same proofs, you might lawfully draw this con- 
sequence, that by my own confession, science is strength. 
Wait, I pray you ; I have not granted, neither do I grant 
that the puissant are strong, I only say that the strong are 
puissant. For puissance and strength are far from being 
the same thing. Puissance comes from science, and some- 
times from choler and fury ; whereas strength comes always 
from nature and from the good nourishment, that is given 
to the body. It is thus that I have said that boldness and 
valour were not the same thing ; that there have been some 
occasions wherein the valiant were bold, but that it could 
not be inferred from thence that all the bold were valiant. 
For men become bold by exercise and art, and sometimes 
by anger and fury, just as they become puissant. But 

* To understand Protagoras's way of arguing, we must know that 
by strength, he means the natural disposition of a robust body ; and 
that by puissance, he means a supernatural vigour like that of a frantic 
person, who in his fits breaks chains, and he also means acquired 
vigour, like that of a champion. This is the reason why he grants 
that the strong are puissant, and denies that the puissant are strong, 
for strength is natural, and puissance springs from habit, or from an 
impulse of the mind. But at last it is nothing but a mere quibble, 
wherein the sophist even contradicts himself, as will be seen imme- 
diately. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



357 



valour proceeds from nature, and the good cultivation of 
the soul.* 

But do not you say, my dear Protagoras, that certain 
people live well, that is to say, agreeably, and that others 
live ill, that is to say, disagreeably ? 

Without doubt. 

And do you say that man lives well, when he spends his 
life in troubles and grief ? 
No assuredly. 

But when a man dies after having spent his life agree- 
ably, do not you think he lived well ? 
Yes, I do. 

Is it not then a good thing to live pleasantly, and a very 
bad thing to live disagreeably ? 

It is according as one delights in what is decent and 
honest, said he.f 

What, Protagoras, said I, will you be of the opinion of 
the vulgar, and will you, with them, call certain things 
that are agreeable, bad, and some others that are disagree- 
able, will you call good ? J 

Yes, certainly. 

How, say you ? Are those agreeable things, bad in 
that which makes them agreeable, independently from 
all that may happen ? And these disagreeable things, are 
they good after the same manner independently of all con- 
sequences ? 

* He means that the more men are disciplined, or transported with 
anger, the more bold they are. He compares boldness to puissance, 
and valour to force. But he does not see that in confessing that 
valour proceeds from the good nourishment given to the soul, he 
acquiesceth with Socrates's principle, that valour is nothing but 
science. Socrates is going to lead him another way. 

+ Protagoras is ashamed of what he just now confessed, for he sees 
the consequence of it • therefore he contradicts himself all of a sudden, 
and he acknowledges that a man who spends his life in honest things, 
and who delights therein, lives agreeably, even though the said things 
be painful. Socrates makes good use of his confession, and is going 
to pursue this principle which will overthrow the sophist immediately. 

$ For the vulgar are persuaded that there are some agreeable 
things that are bad, and some disagreeable things that are good. But 
they reckon them good or bad only by their consequences ; for if 
considered in them selves, we always find the things that are agreeable, 
to be good, and those that are disagreeable, bad. 



358 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



Yes, just so.* 

Then they are not bad, in so far as they are disagree- 
able, f 

In truth, Socrates, said he, I know not if I ought to 
make my answers as simple and as general as your ques- 
tions, and if I ought to assert absolutely, that all agreeable 
things are good, and that all disagreeable things are bad. 
Methinks, that not only in this dispute, but also in all 
others that I may have, it is best to answer, that there are 
certain agreeable things that are not good, and that among 
the disagreeable, there are certain things that are not bad ; 
and that there is a third or medium kind which is neither 
good nor bad. 

But do not you call those things agreeable that are 
joined with pleasure, and which give pleasure ? 
Most certainly. 

I ask you then if they are not good, in so far as they 
are agreeable, that is to say, is not the pleasure they cause 
something of good? 

To that, said he, I answer as you, Socrates, daily 
answer others, that is, that we must examine it, and if it 
agrees with reason, and we find that the agreeable and the 
good are but one and the same thing, we must acquiesce 
therewith, if not, there is an open field for dispute. 

Which do you like best then, Protagoras, said I, will 
you be pleased to lead me in this inquiry, or shall I lead 
you? 

It is most reasonable that you should lead me, for you 
began. 

I will do it, said I, and here is perhaps a method that 
will make the thing appear plain : As a master of exercise, 
or a physician seeing a man whose constitution he would 
know, in order to judge of his health, or the strength and 
good disposition of his body, does not content himself 
with looking on his hands and face, but says to him, Strip 

* This sophist confesses one thing here, whereof he is not in the 
least persuaded ; he also retracts it in the following answer, for he fore- 
sees very well that this confession would carry him too far. He knows 
not how to rid himself out of the difficulty and confusion he is in. 

t It is a necessary consequence of what this sophist confessed just 
now. For if disagreeable things are good independently from what 
may follow, they cannot be bad because they are disagreeable. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



359 



yourself, I pray you, that I may judge of your state with 
the more certainty ; I have a mind to use the same conduct 
with you in our inquiry ; after having known your senti- 
ments of good and of agreeable, I must still say to you, 
my dear Protagoras, do as that master of exercise does, dis- 
cover yourself a little more, and tell me your thoughts of 
science. Are your ideas of that, like those of the vulgar, 
or are you of other sentiments ? For it is the opinion 
of the vulgar in reference to science or knowledge, that 
it is a thing neither strong, capable of conducting, nor 
worthy to command : They cannot fancy to themselves 
that it has any of these qualities : and they persuade 
themselves, that when science is found in a man, it is not 
that which leads and conducts him, but quite a differ- 
ent thing : That it is sometimes anger, sometimes plea- 
sure, sometimes sadness, at other times love, and fre- 
quently fear. In a word, the vulgar take science to be 
a vile slave, always insulted and domineered over, and 
dragged along by the passions. Are you of the same 
opinion with them ? Or do you think on the contrary, 
that science is a fixed thing, that it is capable of command- 
ing man, and that it can put him into a state never to be 
conquered by any passion, so that all the potentates upon 
earth shall never be able to force him to do anything but 
what science shall command, and that it is alone suffi- 
cient to deliver him. 

I do not only admit all that you have said of science, 
answered Protagoras, but I add, that it would seem worse 
in me than in any other man, not to maintain that it is the 
strongest of all human things. 

You have reason, Protagoras. However, you know very 
flrell that the vulgar do not believe us upon this subject, 
they consider that most men know to little purpose what 
is most just, and what is best, for they do nothing of 
it, and frequently act quite contrary. Those of whom I 
have asked the cause of so strange a conduct, have all 
told me, that these people are overcome with pleasure, 
or by sadness, or vanquished, and carried away by some 
other passion. I am apt to believe that those whom 1 have 
consulted, are deceived in that, as in many other things. 
But, let us see : let us endeavour to show them plainly 
what this unhappy inclination is, and wherein it consists. 



360 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



which occasions them to be overcome by pleasures, and pre- 
vents them from acting that which is best, though they know 
it : For perhaps, if we should say to them, friends, you are 
deceived, and you have a false principle, they would ask us 
in their turn, Socrates, and you, Protagoras : What ! is it 
not a passion, to be overcome by pleasures ? Tell us then 
what it is, from whence it comes, and wherein it consists ? 

What, Socrates ! said my opponent, are we obliged to 
stand to the opinions of the vulgar, who speak at random 
all that comes into their heads ? 

However, answered I, this may serve in some measure to 
make us understand the coherence that valour has, with the 
other parts of virtue. If therefore you will stand to what 
you at first agreed, which is, that I should lead you that 
way which I should think the best and shortest, then fol- 
low me ; or if you think fit, I will give over. 

On the contrary, said he, Socrates, I pray you to con- 
tinue as you began. 

Resuming my discourse then : If those same people said 
I, should persist to ask us, what do you call that state of 
mind which is overcome by pleasures ? What should we 
answer ? For my part, this is the way I should take to 
answer them. I should immediately say, my friends, 
hearken, I pray you, and Protagoras and myself will en- 
deavour to give a satisfactory answer to your question. 
Do you think that any other thing happens to you than 
what really happens, when you are enticed by the pleasures 
which seem very agreeable, you yield to the tempta- 
tion, although you know very well that those pleasures are 
very bad and very dangerous ? They would not fail to an- 
swer, that it is nothing else. We should afterwards ask 
them, Why say you that those pleasures are evil ? Is it 
because they give you a sort of pleasure in the moment 
that you enjoy them ? Or is it because in the sequel they 
engender diseases, that they throw you headlong into 
poverty, and draw after them a thousand misfortunes ? Or 
suppose they should not be followed by any of those mis- 
chiefs, would you still call them bad, inasmuch as they 
cause man to rejoice ; and that to rejoice in vice is the 
most deplorable of all vices ? Let us consider, Protagoras, 
what other thing could they answer to us, than that they 
are not bad, by reason of the pleasure they occasion at the 



THE SOPHISTS. 



361 



time of enjoyment, but because of the diseases and other 
accidents which they draw after them ? 

I am persuaded, said Protagoras, that this is what 
almost all of them would answer.* 

Does not, said I, all that which destroys our health, or 
which causeth our ruin, vex us ? I fancy they would 
agree to it. 

Without doubt, said Protagoras. 

Then should I continue : You think, my friends, that 
these pleasures are not bad because they terminate in sor- 
row, and deprive men of other pleasures which they desire 
to enjoy ? They would not fail to acquiesce therein. 

Protagoras consents to it. 

But, say I, if we should take the contrary side, and 
should ask them, My friends, you say that disagreeable 
things are good, how do you understand it ? Will you 
speak by example of bodily exercises, of war, of cures that 
the physicians perform by incision, by purgations, or by 
strictness of diet ? Do you say that these things are good, 
but that they are disagreeable ? They would be of that 
opinion. 

Without doubt. 

Why do you call them good ? Is it because at the 
moment, they cause the greatest pain ? Or, because by 
their operation, tbey occasion health and a good habit of 
body, and are the preservation of cities. Without doubt 
they would make no scrapie to take the last part : Pro- 
tagoras acquiesced therein. 

But suppose I should go on and ask if all those things 
which I have named are good, for any other reason, than 
because they end in pleasure, and that they remove and 
chase away vexation and sadness ? For what other motive 
should oblige you to call those things good, but the re- 
moving of vexation, and the expectation of pleasure ? I 
cannot see any. 

* And consequently Protagoras has spoken against his own proper 
sentiments, when he answered, that certain agreeable things were 
bad by the very same thing that made them agreeable, and inde~ 
pendent from all that might happen, and that certain disagreeable 
things were good after the same manner, independent of all that may 
follow. We must observe this wonderful art whereby Socrates makes 
Protagoras contradict himself so plainly, without ever surprising or 
offending him. 

2 s 



362 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



Nor I neither, said Protagoras. 

Therefore do not you seek aftc r pleasure as a good thing, 
and avoid vexation as an evil ? 
Without contradiction. 

And consequently you take vexation for an evil, and 
pleasure for a good ? You call pleasure itself an evil, when 
it deprives you of certain pleasures that are greater than 
those which it procures for you, and when it causes you 
troubles more sensible than all its pleasures. For if you 
should have any other reason to call pleasure an evil, and 
if you should find that it had any other end, you would 
make no difficulty to tell us of it, but I am sure you cannot 
do so. 

They cannot find any, said Protagoras. 

Is it not the same thing with grief or pain ? Do not 
you call it good when it delivers you from certain evils 
that are greater than those which it occasions you, or when 
the pleasures it procures, are greater than its vexations ? 
For if you could propose to yourself any other end than 
what I have told you, for calling pain good, you would 
without doubt tell it us ; but you cannot. 

That is very true, said Protagoras. 

Suppose, continued I, you should ask me, why I turn 
the thing so many ways ? I should say, pardon me, my 
friends, this is my manner of examining into subjects on 
all sides. For first, it is not easy to demonstrate to you 
what that is which you call to be overcome by pleasures ; and 
on the other hand, there is no other means of making cer- 
tain and sensible demonstrations. But you are still at your 
liberty to declare unto me, if you find good to be any other 
thing than pleasure, and evil to be any other thing than 
pain and sadness. Tell me, would not you be very well satis- 
fied to spend your time agreeably, and without vexation ? 
If you are contented therewith, and if you cannot find that 
good and evil are any other thing than what I say, hearken 
to what follows. 

That being presupposed, I maintain that there is nothing 
more ridiculous than to say as you do, that a man know- 
ing evil to be evil, and being able to prevent its commis- 
sion, ceaseth not to commit it, because he is hurried along 
by pleasure. And, on the other side, that it is no less 
absurd to advance as you do ; that a man knowing good, 



THE SOPHISTS. 



3( ; 3 



yet refuseth to do it, because of some present pleasure that 
diverts him from it. The ridiculousness that I find in 
these two propositions will visibly appear to you, if we do 
not make use of many names, which will only serve to con- 
fuse us ; as agreeable, disagreeable ', good, evil. Seeing 
therefore we speak but of two things, let us make use only 
of two names : let us at first call them by the names of 
good and evil ; and afterwards we shall call them by those 
of agreeable and disagreeable. That being granted, let us 
say, that a man knowing evil, and being sensible that it is 
so, ceaseth not to commit it. We shall certainly be asked, 
why does he commit it ? We shall answer him, because 
he is overcome. And by what is he overcome, they will 
say ? We cannot now answer by the agreeableness of it, 
that is to say, by pleasure, for it is a word that is banished, 
and in lieu thereof, we have agreed to make use of the 
word good. Therefore we must make use of this term only, 
and we must answer, that the man commits evil only be- 
cause he is overcome and surmounted. By what ! We 
must cut short the words, by good. If he who questions 
us has ever so little inclination to raillery, and if he be a 
man that can push us home ; you see what a fine field 
we give him. He will laugh immediately with all his 
might, and will say to us : In truth that is a very pleasant 
thing, that a man who knows evil, and is sensible that it 
is so, and being able to forbear doing it, ceaseth not to 
commit it, because he is overcome by good. He will ask: 
Do you think that good is incapable of surmounting evil ? 
Or is it capable of it 1 Without doubt we will answer it is 
not capable of it ; for otherwise he whom we said was 
overcome by pleasure would not have sinned. But for 
what reason is good, incapable of surmounting evil ? Or 
why has evil the strength to surmount good ? Is it not 
because one is greater and the other less ? Or because 
one is more numerous and the other less ? For we have 
no other reasons to allege. 

Then it is evident from this, he would add, that accord- 
ing to you, to be overcome by good, is to choose the 
greatest evils instead of the least good. Now let us change 
those names by calling this good and evil by the names of 
agreeable and disagreeable. And let us say that a man 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



does, we have hitherto said evil, but let us now say dis- 
agreeable things. A man then does things that are dis- 
agreeable, knowing that they are so, he does them because 
he is overcome and surmounted by those that are agree- 
able, and these notwithstanding are unable to overcome 
and surmount. And what is it that makes pleasure inca- 
pable of surmounting grief ? Is it not the excess or the 
defect of the one in reference to the other ? that is to say, 
when the one is greater or less than the other ; when one 
is more or less flat and dull than the other. 

But if any should object to us that there is a great 
difference between a present pleasure, and a pleasure or 
a pain that is to come and expected : I ask upon that 
head ; Do they differ by any other thing than by plea- 
sure or pain ? They can differ in nothing else. Now, I 
say, that a man who knows how to balance things well, 
and who puts agreeable things on the one side, and disagree- 
able things on the other, as well these that are present, as 
those that he may foresee are to come, knows very well 
which are the most numerous. For if you weigh the 
agreeable with the agreeable, you must always choose the 
most numerous, and the greatest ; if you weigh the dis- 
agreeable with the disagreeable, you must choose the least 
in number, and the smallest ; and if you weigh the agree- 
able with the disagreeable, and that the last are surmounted 
by the first; whether it be, that the present are sur- 
mounted by the absent, or the absent by the present, we 
must always choose the greatest, that is, the first, the 
agreeable :* and if the latter, or the disagreeable weigh 
down the scales, we must beware of making so bad a 

* This is Socrate's answer to the foregoing objection. Pleasure 
and pain differ only in the number or degree of the pains and plea- 
sures. Therefore it is ridiculous to think that a man should be so 
much an enemy to himself, as voluntarily to prefer a small present 
pleasure to a great pleasure he is sure of, and to run after a pleasure 
which he sees is followed by a certain pain. For it is agreed that 
every man seeks the good and shuns the evil. All that is in question 
is to take a balance, and to weigh the good and evil, as far as they 
are known. This is not done, which is a sure token that they are not 
known, and consequently it is the want of knowledge, that is to say, 
ignorance, that precipitates us into evii. This is without all doubt. 



THE SOPHISTS 



365 



choice.* Is not that all the art to be used ? Yes, doubt- 
less, they would say. Protagoras also agreed to it. 

Since that is so, I would say; answer me, I pray ; Does 
not an object appear greater near at hand than at a dis- 
tance I Do not you understand a voice better when it is 
near you, than when it is far off ? 

Without doubt. 

If therefore our happiness consisted always in choosing 
and doing that which is least, what should we do all 
our life-time, to assure us of happiness I Should we 
have recourse to the art of measuring, or should we con- 
tent ourselves with appearances, and with a simple 
glance of the eye ? But we know that the sight has 
often deceived us, and that when we have judged by 
the eye, we have been often obliged to change our opinion 
when the question to be decided has been, which is the 
greatest I Whereas the art of measuring has always 
removed these false appearances, and by making the 
truth appear, has set the mind at ease, which relied upon 
this truth. What would our disputants say to that ? 
Would they say that our safety depends upon the art of 
measuring, or upon any other art ? 

Upon the art of measuring, without doubt. 

And if our safety should depend upon the choice of 
even and odd, every time that one must choose the least, 
and compare the most with the most, or the least with the 
least, and the one with the other, whether they be near or 
at a distance, upon what art would our safety depend I Is 
it not upon the art of Arithmetic ? For the art of 
measuring, which teacheth us nothing but the greatness of 
things, is no longer the business in question ; it would be 
requisite to know the even and the odd, and nothing but 
the knowledge of Arithmetic can teach us that ? Would 
not our people agree to it 1 

Assuredly, said Protagoras. 

That is well then, my friends. But since it has ap- 
peared to us that our safety depends upon the good choice 

* Oar safety depends upon the good choice between pleasure and 
pain. We are only unhappy because we deceive 00 r selves in our 
choice. Our misfortunes proceed only from our ignorance, for no 
body desires to be unhappy. 

2 1 2 



366 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



which we should make between pleasure and pain, that is 
to sav 3 between that which in these two kinds is the 
greatest or the least, the most numerous or the least, the 
nearest or the farthest off : Is it not true that the art of 
measuring is the art of examining the largeness of things, 
and. of comparing their different resemblances ? 
It cannot be otherwise. 

Then the art of measuring must be an art and a 
science:* They could not disagree to it. AVe shall examine 
hereafter what that art is, which at the same time is an 
art and a science : now that the art of measuring is a 
science, we agree, and that suffices for a demonstration 
upon the question you have proposed to us ; for you and 
I have agreed, that there is nothing so strong as science, 
and that wherever it is found, it is victorious over pleasure, 
and all other passions. At the same time you have con- 
tradicted it, in assuring us, that pleasure is often victori- 
ous, and that it triumphs over man, even when he knows 
the poison of it. Now Protagoras, and Socrates, if that 
be not to be overcome by pleasure, tell us what it is, and 
what you call that inclination which carries us away. 

If we should have answered you at the time that we 
called it ignorance, you would have laughed at us. Laugh 
on now, and you will laugh at yourselves. For you have 
confessed that those who deceive themselves in the choice 
of pleasure and of pain, that is to say, of good and evil, 
are not deceived, but for want of knowledge ; you further 
agreed that it was not only for want of knowledge, 
but for want of that science which teacheth to measure. 
Now every action wherein one is deceived for want of 
knowledge, you know very well yourself, that it is through 
ignorance, and by consequence it is a very great ignorance 
to be overcome by pleasure. Protagoras, Prodicus and 
Hippias, boast that they can cure this ignorance, and you 
because you are persuaded, that this unhappy inclination 
is some other thing than ignorance, will not apply your- 
self, and will not send your children to those Sophists 

* It is an art, because there are rules and a method ; and it is a 
science, because its objects are things necessary, and immaterial, and 
because it makes its demonstrations by infallible arguments built up- 
on necessary principles that are incontestable and certain. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



367 



who are such excellent masters ; as holding it for a 
certain truth that virtue cannot he taught y and thus 
save the money which you would he obliged to give 
them. It is that opinion which causes all the misfor- 
tunes, not only of the republic, but also of particular 
persons. 

That is what we would answer to those honest peo- 
ple. But I apply myself now to you, Prodicus and 
Hippias, and I ask you as well as Protagoras, if you 
think what I have just now said to be true or false ? 

They all agreed that they were very evident truths. 

You agree then, said I. that agreeable is that which 
is called good, and disagreeable, that which is called evil. 

Prodicus agrees to it, as do also the others. 

Then what do you think of this, my friends, said I, 
are not all actions tine, which tend to make us live agree- 
ably, and without pain I And is not a fine action at the 
same time good and useful I 

They agree to it. 

If it be true that agreeable is good, and that it is 
the good, then it is not possible that a man knowing 
that there are better things than those which he does, 
and knowing that he can do them; should notwithstand- 
ing do the evil and leave the good. Therefore, to be 
overcome by pleasure, is nothing else than to be in 
ignorance : and to overcome pleasures is nothing else 
than to have knowledge. 

They acquiesced therein. 

But, said I to them, what do you call it to be in 
ignorance I Is it not to have a false opinion, and to 
deceive one's self in things that are very essential and 
important ? 

Without doubt. 

It follows then from this principle, that no person 
runs voluntarily into evil, nor into that which he takes 
to be evil. And that it is not at all in the nature of 
man to run after evil, as evil, instead of after good.* 
And, when forced to choose one of two evils, you 

* For it is certain that our will never inclines to any thing but 
that which pleaseth it most. And there is nothing but good, or 
what it takes for such, that pleaseth it. 



368 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



will find no one who would choose the greatest, if it w^re 
in his power to take the least. 

That seemed to all of us a manifest truth. 

Then, said I, what call you terror and fear ? Speak 
Prodicus. Is it not the expectation of an evil: whether 
you call it terror or fear ? 

Protagoras and Hippias acquiesced, that terror and 
fear were nothing else : Prodicus confessed it of fear, 
but denied it of terror. But that is no matter, my dear 
Prodicus, answered I. The only important point is to 
know if the principle which I just now asserted be true. 
If it be so, all your distinctions are useless. In effect, 
who is the man who would run after that which he fears, 
when he might go before that which he fears not ? That 
is impossible, by your own confession ; for from the time 
that a man fears a thing, he confesseth that he believes it 
to be bad ; and there is no one who voluntarily seeks 
after and receives that which is bad. 

They agreed to it. 

These foundations being laid down : Prodicus and Hip- 
pias, said I, now Protagoras must justify and prove the 
truth of what he has asserted ; or rather I must grant him 
quarter for what he advanced at first, for he said that or 
the five parts of virtue, there is not one that resembles 
another, and that they had each of them their own quali- 
ties and a different character. I will not insist upon that, 
but let him prove what he said afterwards, that of those 
five parts, there were four which had some resemblance to 
each other, and one which was altogether different from 
the other four, that is to say, valour. 

He added, that I should know that truth by this evident 
mark, that is, said he, Socrates; that you shall see men 
who are very imperious, unjust, debauched, and ignorant, 
and yet have an heroic valour ; and you will thus under- 
stand, that valour is extremely different from the other 
parts of virtue. 

I confess that at first I was very much surprised at this 
answer, and my surprise hath been greater since I examined 
the thing with you. I asked him if he did not call bold 
and resolute men, valiant ? He told me, that he gave that 
name to those bold spirits who run headlong into danger. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



369 



You remember it very well, Protagoras, that was the answer 
you made me ? 

I do remember it, said he. 

Tell us then wherein are the valiant bold, is it in things 
that the timorous undertake ? 
Certainly not. 

Is it in others ? In those things that the brave under- 
take ? 

Assuredly. 

Do not cowards run on upon those things that seem to 
be safe, and the valiant upon those that seem to be terrible? 

So people say, Socrates, answered Protagoras. 

You say true, Protagoras ; but that is not what I ask 
you, I would know your sentiment. Wherein do you say 
are the valiant bold? Is it in things that are terrible, or in 
that which they think such ? 

Do not you remember, Socrates, that you have plainly 
made it appear already, that this was impossible. 

Yon are in the right, Protagoras, I had forgotten it. Then 
it is a thing demonstrated, that no one runs upon things 
that he finds to be terrible, because it is most certainly 
an ignorant thing to suffer one's self to be overcome by 
passion. 

I agree to it. 

But on the other side, the brave and the coward run 
upon things that seem to be safe and without danger, and 
by that means cowards do the same thing as the brave.* 

There is a great difference, Socrates ; the cowards do 
the contrary to what the brave do ; without going further, 
the one seeks war, the other flies from it. 

But do they find it to be a fine thing to go to war ? 

Yes, certainly, most fine. 

* It is a necessary consequence of what Protagoras j list now con- 
fessed, that the brave do not run upon terrible things because it is 
an evil. Then they run upon things that are safe, and that appear 
to be without danger; and by consequence they do the same thing 
as cowards. But here is the difference between cowards and brave 
men, that the brave acting always by knowledge, are never deceived 
in the side they choose ; for they certainly know what is terrible, and 
what is not. Whereas the cowards acting by ignorance, and fixing 
safety where danger is, and danger where safety is, are always de- 
ceived. How many great truths are cleared up by this principle 



370 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



If it be fine, it is also good, for we have agreed that all 
actions that are fine, are good. 

That is most true, said he, and I have always been of 
that opinion. 

I am very glad of it. But who are those who will not 
go to the war which they find to be so fine and good. 
They are cowards, said he. 

In the mean time, said I, to go to war being a fine and a 
good thing : Is it not also agreeable ? 

It is a sequel of the principles which we have agreed to? 
'Do cowards refuse to go to that which is finer, better, 
and more agreeable, although they know it to be what 
it is ? 

But, Socrates, if we should confess that, then we over- 
throw all our first principles. 

How, said I, do not the brave run upon all that they 
think to be the finest, the best, and the most agreeable ? 

It cannot be denied. 

Then it is evident that the brave have not a shameful 
fear when they fear, nor a shameful assurance when they 
are firm and assured ? 

It is true. 

If they are not shameful, then they are fine and honest: 
Is it not so ? And if honest, then they are good ? 
Yes. 

And are not the cowards, though rash and furious, quite 
the contrary ? Have they not unworthy fears and shame- 
ful assurances ? 

I confess it. 

And from whence come those unworthy fears and shame- 
ful assurances ? Is it not from ignorance ? 
That is certain. 

But, what do you call that which makes cowards to be 
cowards ? Do you call it valour, or cowardice 1 
1 call it cowardice, without doubt. 

Then all cowards appear to you to be so, because of 
their ignorance. 
Most assuredly. 

Then it is that ignorance which makes them cowards ? 
I agree to it. 

You have agreed that it is cowardice that makes 
cowards ? 



THE SOPHISTS. 37 1 

I have. 

According to you, cowardice is the ignorance of things 
that are terrible, and of those that are not ? Protagoras 
made a signal that he agreed to it. At the same time 
valour is opposite to cowardice ? He made the same sign 
of approbation. 

And consequently the knowledge of things thafe are 
terrible, and of those that are not ; is opposed to ig- 
norance of the same things ? He gave another sign of his 
consent. 

Is ignorance cowardice ? 

He hesitatingly passed this over. 

And is not the knowledge of things that are terrible, 
and of those that are not, valour I seeing it is contrary to 
the ignorance of the same things ? 

Upon that he gave no sign, and said not another word. 

How, said I, Protagoras, will you neither grant me what 
I demand, nor deny it ! 

Come to an end speedily, said he. 

Then I ask you only one question more. I ask you if 
you still think as you lately did, that there are men who 
are very ignorant, and yet very brave I 

Seeing you are so pressing, said he to me, and that you 
will oblige me to answer you still, I will do you that plea- 
sure. I tell you then, Socrates, that which you ask me 
seems impossible, according to the principles that we have 
established. 

I assure you, Protagoras, said I, that I propose all 
these questions to you with no other design, than to 
examine narrowly into all the parts of virtue, and to know 
well what virtue really is : For I am persuaded that this 
being well known, we should certainly rind what we seek 
for, and what we have discoursed so much upon: the one 
in saying that virtue cannot be taught, and the other in 
maintaining that it can. And at this close of our dispute, 
if I durst presume to personate virtue, I should say that it 
mightily upbraids and laughs at us : saying, You are plea- 
sant disputants, Socrates and Protagoras ! You, Socrates, 
after having maintained that Virtue cannot be taught, are 
contradicting yourself, by endeavouring to show that all is 
science, as justice, temperance, valour, &c, and that is to 
conclude that virtue can be taught : For if knowledge be 



3/2 



PROTAGORAS ; OR, 



different from virtue, as Protagoras endeavours to prove, 
it is evident that virtue cannot be taught ; whereas, if it 
passes for a science, as you would have it acknowledged, 
men will never apprehend that it cannot be taught.* And 
Protagoras, on the other hand, after having maintained 
that it can be taught, contradicts himself also, by endea- 
vouring to persuade us that it is some other thing than 
knowledge. 

But let us leave the fiction. For my part, Protagoras, I 
am heartily sorry to see all our principles so horribly con- 
founded; and I could passionately w T ish that we were able to 
disentangle, and explain them ; that after having searched 
into all the parts of virtue, we might plainly shew what it 
is in itself, and that leaving our chief question at last to 
another hearing, we might determine if virtue could be 
taught or not : For I am very much afraid that your Epi- 
metheus has deceived us in our examination, as you say he 
deceived, and forgot us in the distribution he made. I 
will also tell you frankly, that in your fable, Prometheus 
has pleased me much better than that lover of confusion 
Epimetheus : and it is by following his example that I take 

* That is founded upon this erroneous opinion which is very- 
common, that every science can be taught. Socrates clearly proves 
it to be an error, for by maintaining that virtue is a science, he as- 
serts at the same time, and proves after a most solid manner that 
man cannot teach it. It is not difficult to see what he aims at : He 
means that it can be learned of no one but God ; for he is the God of 
sciences, Deus Scientiarum, as he is called in the Holy Scripture ; 
(1 Kings ii. Psal. cxix. 66. Psal. xciv. 10.) wherefore David says to 
him, "Lord, teach me knowledge and he assureth us, that it is he 
who teacheth it to men, qui docet hominem scientiam. If that be 
true of knowledge, it is also true of valour, seeing Socrates hath al- 
ready proved, that valour and knowledge are but the same thing. 
Plato was not the first heathen who had the idea of those excellent 
truths ; above three hundred years before him, Homer had said (in the 
first book of his Iliad) when he brings in Agamemnon speaking to 
Achilles, "If thou be so valiant, from whence comes thy valour? Is it 
not God who gave it to thee ?" And almost three hundred years be- 
fore Homer, David had said, (Psal. xviii. 34, and cxliv. 1.) "it, is God 
who teacheth my hands to war," qui docet manus meas ad prcelium* 
But one will say, why does not Socrates explain his meaning? It is 
because a philosopher ought to fix what virtue is ; before he explains 
from w r hence it comes, and who are the masters that teach it; for 
virtue being known, its author is also consequently known, and the 
proof is made. 



THE SOPHISTS. 



373 



all care and precaution to frame my life well, employing 
myself solely in those inquiries, and if you will join me, 
as I told you before, I would most willingly dive into 
the bottom of all these matters. 

Socrates, said Protagoras, 1 extremely commend your 
good intentions, and your way of treating upon subjects. 
I can boast that I have no vice ; but above all, that I 
am far from envy ; no man in the world is less inclined 
to it than myself : And as for you, I have often said, that 
of all those I converse with, you are the person whom 
I admire the most, and that there is none of all those of 
your age, but whom I think infinitely below you ; and I 
add, that I shall not in the least be surprised that you should 
be some day among the number of those great persons 
who have rendered themselves famous for wisdom. But we 
shall speak another time of these matters, and it shall be 
when you please. At present, I am obliged to leave, upon 
other business. 

We must then, Protagoras, said I, put off the dispute to 
another time, seeing you will have it so ; besides, I should 
have gone long since, where I am expected ; but I re- 
mained to oblige Callias, who deserved it of me. That 
being said, every one retired whither his affairs called him. 



374 



THE 



INTRODUCTION TO SOCRATES'S APOLOGY. 



In Eutyphron we saw how Socrates attacked the super- 
stition of the Athenians and the plurality of their Gods, by 
exposing the ridiculousness of the fable, with which their 
divinity was stuffed ; and by that means endeavouring to 
bring them to the knowledge of the true God. They were 
a people devoted to idolatry, and always upon their guard 
against innovations ; witness the Acts of the Apostles ; 
(ch. 17. 18.), where we see the Athenians, who were dis- 
turbed at the preaching of St . Paul, cryed out, "He seemeth 
to be a setter forth of strange Gods." Now a people thus 
disposed, could not but be alarmed by a doctrine so op- 
posed to their errors. But that was not the first cause of 
their hatred to Socrates. The virtue and generous liberty 
of that wise man, procured him many secret enemies, who, 
in order to get rid of a public censor, that always exposed 
their vices, decried him underhand, as being an impious 
fellow, that meddled with suspected sciences. Aristophanes 
was the most efficient instrument in spreading that ca- 
lumny. His comedy of the Clouds had such an absolute 
influence upon the people, that it moved them to re- 
ceive the accusation brought against this philosopher 
more than twenty years before. The cause being formally 
brought to a trial, Socrates was obliged to appear before 
his judges, and answer both of these different sorts of ac- 
cusers. It was above all upon this occasion, as being the 
last act of his life, that he admirably kept up the character 
of a philosopher, endowed with a divine spirit, and a con- 
summate wisdom ; who never did an unadvised action, nor 
spoke so much as one word amiss. Even death itself, 
when threatened and presented to his view, could not 



SOCRATES'S APOLOGY. 



move hhn to depart one moment from the paths of vir- 
tue and justice. He speaks positively of his innocence, 
and does not stoop to the hase methods of begging votes, 
that were then in use. He employs neither the artifice 
nor varnish of human eloquence : he has no recourse to 
supplications and tears ; he does not bring his wife and 
children to soften the judges with their groans and lamen- 
tations. His defence does not savour of any thing that is 
cringing, cowardly, base or little. His discourse is high, 
masculine, generous, and becoming a philosopher. He 
gave in his defence with so much plainness and simplicity, 
that some of the ancients took occasion from thence to 
say, that he did not clear himself of the charge. It is 
true, he did not speak as persons upon their trial used to 
do. He contented himself with speaking to the judges as 
in common discourse, and with proposing some questions 
to his accusers ; so that his part was rather a familiar con- 
versation, than a studied harangue. However, even this 
his careless Apology was true and to the purpose. Plato, 
who was then present, afterwards gathered it into a body ; 
and without adding any thing to the truth, formed it into 
a discourse, set off with an eloquence almost divine, and 
which, to my mind, mfhiitely surpasses the greatest master- 
pieces of that nature yet known. No other work exhibits 
bo much candour and ingenuity, joined with so much force. 
But, after all, the most admirable thing in this discourse is 
not its eloquence, but the line sentiments it is full of. 
Here generosity, reason, piety, and justice, are displayed 
with all their splendour; and the maxims scattered through- 
out may justly be esteemed sacred. Who would not 
wonder at this lesson of Socrates ! viz. ''That a prisoner 
arraigned ought not to make it his business to raise the 
pity of the judge ; that he ought to affect him by his 
reasons, and not by his requests ; and procure an absolu- 
tion by justice, not by favour : for a judge is not placed 
on the bench to oblige people by violating the laws, but to 
do justice pursuant to them ; he swears to this purpose, 
and his oath ought to be inviolable. Now an honest man 
should not solicit his judge to be guilty of perjury ; and 
a judge should not suffer himself to be inveigled : else, 
two innocent persons will become two criminals." He 



376 



THE INTRODUCTION TO 



teaches, that an honest man ought always to stand to his 
post, let the impending danger be ever so great : that he 
o light to obey his superiors, and part with his life when 
they demand it. For, says he, there is nothing more 
crimin?«l and scandalous, than to disobey superior powers, 
whether Gods or men. He teaches us not to fear death, but 
shame only, winch pursues men more swiftly than death it- 
self. He is of opinion, that our ordinary exercise should 
be, discoursing of virtue, and putting ourselves to the test 
of its rules ; for a life without examination, is no life at 
all. In one word, this Apology is a perfect model of the 
due conduct of an honest man in all the conditions of life, 
and especially of the manner how a person unjustly ac- 
cused ought to defend himself. 

Several persons who assisted in the court upon this oc- 
casion, drew up Socrates' s Apology ; in which every one 
produced the arguments that occurred to his memory, or 
those that affected him most ; and all of them kept true 
to the lofty and magnanimous temper of this philosopher. 
After all the rest, Xenophon compiled one from the relation 
of Hermogenes, the son of Hipponicus, for he himself was 
not then at Athens. Time has robbed us of them all, 
except Plato's and Xenophon' s ; but it is apparent that the 
one of these is much inferior to the other. In the first 
we meet with all the force of the greatest disciple of Socra- 
tes, a disciple that was present, and came near to the true 
original : whereas the other presents us with the hand of 
a disciple that was absent, and goes upon an imperfect 
copy. However, even this imperfect copy is evidence 
that the passages related by Plato are true ; for Xenophon 
does not only go upon the same ideas of things, but like- 
wise assures us, that Socrates spoke as he says he did. 

" Do but observe," says Montagne,* " by what reasons 
Socrates rouses up his courage to the hazards of war; with 
what arguments he fortifies his patience against calumny, 
tyranny, and death. You will find nothing in all this 
borrowed from arts and sciences. The simplest may there 
discern their own means and power. It is not possible 
more to retire, or to creep lower. He has done human 



* Book 3. Chap. 12. 



SOCRATES's APOLOGY. 



S77 



nature a great kindness, in shewing it how much it can do 
of itself. His plea is plain and simple, but yet of an un- 
imaginable height. His way of arguing is equally admir- 
able for its simplicity and its force. It is an easier matter 
to speak like Aristotle, and live like Caesar, than to speak 
and live as Socrates did. Here lies the greatest difficulty, 
and that degree of perfection, which no art can improve." 

But before I launch into the Apology, it will be necessary 
to say something of the familiar Spirit that governed So- 
crates, which has made so much noise in the world. Some 



counts of it. 

It is needless to observe, that the opinion of Plato, 
assigning to every man, from his very birth 3 a particular 
genius, or angel, to take care of him, is in accordance with 
the truth taught in holy Scripture, where we hear of men 
conducted by angels, and Jesus Christ himself saying, that 
"the angels of little children do see the face of God in hea- 
ven without interruption." Upon which account, Origen 
accuses those as calumniators, who would brand the fami- 
liar of Socrates for a fable.* A certain proof that he was 
truly guided by a good Genius, is, that all his life long he 
was pious, temperate, and just ; that in all cases he always 
took the right side ; that he never injured any man ; that 
he always proclaimed war against vice; and attacked 
false religions ; that the whole business of his life was to 
make men more honest; and acquaint them with truth and 
justice. 

The on 7 y difficulty is, to know how this Familiar gave 
him to understand his meaning, and what was the nature of 
that divine voice. Doubtless inspiration was the manner 
of conveyance. And Plutarch naturally leads us to that 
thought, where he speaks of the miracles recounted in 
Homer, who often introduces Deities coming to suc- 
cour men, and to inspire them with the knowledge of what 
they ought to do or avoid. His words are these "YVe 
must either deny the Deity the title of a moving cause, 
or any principle of our operations ; or else own that it has 
no other way of succouring men, and co-operating with 
them, than by calling up and determining the will, by the 




others gave very dhTerent ac- 



* In the 6th book against Celsus. t In the Life of Coriolanus. 
2k 2 



378 



THE INTRODUCTION TO 



ideas conveyed into the mind. For it does not push or 
act upon our bodies; it influences neither our hands nor 
our feet; but by virtue of certain principles and ideas, which 
it calls up within us, it stirs up the active faculty of our 
soul, and either pushes on our will, or else checks it, and 
turns it another way. 5 ' 

But some will ask, how then could it be a Voice ? It 
was a Voice ; that is, an impression upon the imaginative fa- 
culty of the soul : such as happens often while one is asleep, 
and sometimes when awake; when one fancies that he 
hears and sees, though at the same time he hears nothing 
and sees as little. This was the opinion that Plutarch 
entertained: for he says,* that Socrates was a man of a 
clear head, and of an easy and calm temper; that is, he was 
not moved by trouble, nor disquieted by passion, and con- 
sequently was entirely disposed to listen to the suggestions 
of that Genius, which, by virtue of its light, alone influ- 
enced the understanding part of the soul, and made the 
same impression upon it that a voice does after it has passed 
through the organs of the body. It was this voice that 
Homer so admirably describes, when, speaking of the 
dream that came upon Agamemnon, he says, that c e a divine 
voice surrounded him. 55 

There is yet another difficulty behind : It is, why this 
Voice had only the power of diverting Socrates, and never 
of urging him on to any thing : for Marsilius Ficinus is cer- 
tainly wrong in pretending to give such a mysterious ac- 
count of the matter, as if the Genius of Socrates never pushed 
him on, because he was not of a martial spirit, and always 
dissuaded him, because he was naturally heavy; as if the 
Divine Being had only given him the light to deny, and not 
to affirm. This is the way to elude the argument, by split- 
ting upon greater difficulties, or pinning the controversy 
upon idle and frivolous distinctions. The more reason- 
able and natural account of the matter is, that Socrates 
was virtuous to the last degree, and always bent to take 
up with whatever he considered fair and honest; that 
upon other scores, he had no business to mind, but 
to live a simple and uniform life, and consequently had no 
occasion but to be reserved and backward, when soli- 

* In his treatise of the Genius of Socrates. 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



379 



cited either to pass a false judgment, or to make a wrong 
step. 

In the Latin translations, this Apology is involved in 
much obscurity, because the translators have not taken care 
to divide it, and did not perceive that it was made at three 
several times, which are distinctly noted, in the present 
translation. 



THE 

APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 

I know not, Athenians, what impression the harangues 
of my accusers have made upon you: for my part, I confess 
that they have almost made me forget myself ; so artfully 
are their reasons coloured and set off. And yet, I can as- 
sure you, they have not spoken one word of truth. 

But of all their calumnies, that which surprises me most, 
is, that they counsel you to beware of being seduced by 
my eloquence,* and endeavour to work you into a great 
opinion of it. For certainly it is the height of impudence, 
not to fear the shame of having the he given them ; which 
I am about to do, by shewing that I am not at all eloquent, 
unless they call him eloquent who can speak nothing but 
the truth. If that be their plea, I own myself a great 
orator, but not after their fashion ; for I am now about to 
discover to you the naked truth, in common and simple 
expressions, without the quaint turns and picked expres- 
sions which set off their discourses. For I have this confi- 
dence in myself, that I speak the truth, and none of ycu 
ought to expect any thing else from me : it would be 
very unsuitable for one of my age to appear before you 
like a school-boy, with a studied harangue upon a fabu- 
lous subject. 

Wherefore the only favour I beg of you, is, that when 

* They cried up his eloquence, in order to aggravate the injustice 
they charged upon him; alleging, that he confounded the ideas of 
justice, and taught the way of putting a good face upon bad causes. 



330 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



you find my defence given in the most ordinary and 
common terms, such as I am always wont to make 
use of in my interviews with you on the exchange and 
public banks, and the other places where I often used 
to meet you; my request is, that when you find it so 3 
you would not be surprised or incensed against me, for 
I am about to speak of the matter of fact, just as it 
stands. 

Though I am now seventy years old, this is the first time 
that I ever entered this hall; I am a stranger to it, and un- 
acquainted with its language and customs. Now were I a 
foreigner, you would readily grant me the favour of making 
my defence in the language and manner of my own country. 
In like manner I beg of you, as a stranger to this hall, 
and I think my petition is just, that you would grant 
me the same favour, and overlook my manner of expres- 
sion, which perhaps is not so good as others (though, after 
all, it is possible that it may be better) and only mind whe- 
ther I speak justly or not: for that ought to be the chief 
view of a judge, as the greatest virtue of an orator con- 
sists in speaking nothing but the truth. 

It is but reasonable that I should begin by answering 
the charges of my first accusers, and afterwards come up 
to the latter in their order : for I have had a great many 
accusers before this court these several years, and none of 
them have advanced any thing but what is false. I am 
more afraid of my old accusers than of Anytus and his 
accomplices. It is true, the latter display a great deal of 
eloquence; but the others are more to be regarded, since 
they have accosted you from your infancy, and persuaded 
you into a belief of what calumnies they pleased. 

They told you, there was one Socrates, a wise man, that 
inquired into the motions of the heavens, and the hidden 
treasures of the earth; who has such a dexterous way of 
perplexing the ideas of justice and truth, that he can make 
a bad cause appear good. 

The men who spread these false rumours are my most 
dangerous enemies; for those who listen to their surmises 
are persuaded that philosophers taken up with such inqui- 
ries, believe no Gods. Besides, these accusers are very 
numerous, and they have had a long while to concert their 
plot; they are now grown old, and took occasion to pre- 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



381 



possess you with that opinion, in an age that generally is 
too credulous : for you were for the most part but infants, 
or at most in the first years of your youth, when they laid 
their accusation against me before you, and carried it on 
without opposition : and which is yet more unjust, I am 
not allowed to know my accusers. They get off with set- 
ting a comedian at the head of the charge, while all those, 
who through envy or malice have wrought you into a belief 
of these falsehoods, and continue still underhand to throw 
the same calumnies about ; these men, I say, are allowed 
to he concealed: so that I have neither the power of calling 
them to account before you, nor the pleasure of refuting 
them in your presence ; and the only way of defending my • 
self is, to fight with a shadow, and speak against I know 
not whom. 

Wherefore consider, Athenians, that I am now to en- 
counter two sorts of accusers, those who arraigned me a 
great while ago, and those who sammoned me lately; and 
I entreat you to believe that I He under a necessity of giv- 
ing my answer first to the former sort. 

Now is the time then, that I am to defend myself, and 
in so short a space of time, I am to endeavour to root out 
of your minds a calumny, that you have entertained a long 
while, and which has taken deep root in your minds. I 
wish with all my heart that my defences could promote 
your advantage as well as my own, and that my apology 
might serve some more important design, than that of 
justifying myself : but I perceive the difficulties that lie in 
the way; and am not so blind, as not to see, where all this 
will terminate. God's will be done. My business is to 
obey the law, and defend myself. 

To return to the origin of the charge, upon which 
I am so much decried, and which inspired Melitus with 
the boldness to arraign me before you ; let us see what 
was the plea of these my first accusers : for their charge 
must be put into form, and affidavits made.* It is this : 
Socrates is an impious man ; with a criminal curiosity he 
pretends to penetrate into all that passes in the heavens, 

* Socrates treats the calumnies of Aristophanes and his first 
enemies, as if it were a just charge formally presented upon oath ; 
for both the accuser and the prisoner were obliged to swear, that they 
would advance nothing but truth : and this they called av-wfxoaia. 



382 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



and to fathom what is contained in the bowels of the earth. 
He has the way of giving the ascendant to injustice; and 
is not content to reserve these secrets to himself, but com- 
municates them to others. 

This is the accusation : the heads of which you have seen 
in the comedy of Aristophanes, where one Socrates is re- 
presented as hung up in a basket, giving out that he walks 
upon the winds ; with many other such foolish pretensions. 
Now these are secrets that I am altogether a stranger to ; 
I never gave my mind to these sublime sciences : not 
that I despise them, or contemn those who are well versed 
in them, if any such there be, lest Melitus should there- 
upon charge me with new crimes : I would only give you 
to know, that I never meddled with these sciences, as most 
of you can bear witness. 

Since you have so often conversed with me, and that there 
is so great a number of you who know me, I conjure you 
to declare, if ever you heard me speak of these things, 
either directly or indirectly. This may furnish you with 
certain evidence, that all the other articles of my indict- 
ment are of a piece with this. And further, if ever you 
heard that I either taught, or required a reward for so 
doing, I will prove it to be a base calumny. 

Not that I disparage those who do so ; such as Gorgias of 
Leonti, Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of Elia. For these great 
men have a wonderful talent of persuading and retaining all 
the youth of whatever city they go to ; young men that might 
apply themselves to which of their own countrymen they have 
a mind to, without any charge, are so influenced by them, that 
they quit their own countrymen, and adhere to them only, 
paying large sums, and acknowledging infinite obligations 
besides. I have likewise heard, that there is yet another 
very ingenious master in this city, who came from Paros ; 
for I met him the other day in the house of a person who 
spends more upon sophists, than all the other citizens put 
together ; I mean Callias ; where happening to speak of 
Callias's two sons, I addressed myself to him in this 
fashion : had you two young horses, would not you want 
to put them into the} hands of some skilful man, and pay 
him well, for making them handsome, and giving them all 
the good qualities they ought to have ? And would not 
this skilful man bf some good groom, or expert horse- 

I 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



383 



man ? Now you have two children; what master have you 
pitched upon for them ? Whom have we in our city, that 
is well versed in human and politic virtues ? For doubt- 
less you have considered that question already, upon the 
account of your children. Tell me then, if you know of 
any ? Yes, doubtless, replied Callias. Who is it, said I ; 
what country is he of ; and what are his demands ? It is 
Even us, replied he, from Paros : he demands fifty crowns. 
Whereupon I told him, Evenus was happy, provided it was 
true that he knew the art, and could impart it to others. 

As for me, gentlemen, were I possessed of such endow- 
ments, I should be proud of them, and glory in them : 
but such is my misfortune, I have no title to them. I 
perceive you will be ready to reply,* " But what then 
have you done, Socrates, and what occasioned these calum- 
nies you are charged with ? Had you never done more 
than your fellow-citizens, nor meddled with further busi- 
ness, these reports of you would never have had a being. 
Tell us, therefore, how the matter stands, that we may not 
pass an unadvised sentence." This, I admit is a just objec- 
tion : wherefore I will endeavour to lay before you the 
occasion of my being so much decried and talked of. 
Give ear to me, and assure yourselves, that I will speak 
nothing but truth. 

The disrepute I he under, is only occasioned by a sort 
of wisdom within me. But what is this wisdom ? Per- 
haps it is merely human prudence, for I run a great risk 
of being possessed of nothing more ; whereas those men 
I just mentioned, are superhumanly wise. 

I can say nothing to this last sort of wisdom, because I 
am a stranger to it ; and those who charge it upon me, 
mean only to injure my reputation. But I beg that you 
Athenians would not be startled, if I seem to speak a little 
favourably of myself : I shall not advance anything upon 
my own authority, but shall produce an unexceptionable 

* Thus the -words tqgov ri scri irpayixa are to be rendered : and 
not as De Serres does, viz., " Qusenam heec est tua res?" What is 
your business then ? The judges knew very well what was Socrates's 
business, and consequently cannot be supposed to put that question 
to him. But it is very probable they might ask him what it was 
that brought him thither, or what he had done to merit those calum- 
nies. Marsilius Ficinus was better acquainted with the spirit of the 
Greek language, for he rendered it, " Quodnam tuimi est opus ?" 



384 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



author to vouch on my behalf. For a witness of my 
wisdom, such as it is, I refer you to the god himself that 
presides at Delphi. You are all acquainted with Chsere- 
phon, who was my companion from my infancy, and had 
the like intimacy with most of you. He accompanied you 
in your exile, and returned along with you. So that you 
cannot but know what sort of a man Chserephon was, and 
how earnest in all his undertakings. One day, being at 
Delphi, he had the boldness to ask the Oracle (once more I 
beg you would not be surprised with what I am about to 
say). I say he put this question to the Oracle, whether 
there was a wiser man in the world than Socrates ? The 
priestess answered, that there was none. His brother, who 
is yet alive, can assure you that this is true. Wherefore, 
I entreat you, Athenians, to consider seriously the reason 
why I present you with an account of all these things : for, 
it is only to show you the cause of those false rumours, 
that have been raised against me. 

When I heard the Oracle's answer, I put the question to 
myself; what does the God mean ? What is the hidden 
sense that lies couched under these words ? For, I am 
sensible, that I am entitled to no wisdom, either small or 
great. What then does the God mean by calling me the 
wisest of men, since a Deity cannot he ? Thus I continued 
a long time in suspense about the meaning of the Oracle, 
till at last, after a great deal of trouble, it came in my 
mind to make this trial. I went to one of our citizens, 
who passes for the wisest man in the city, and hoped that 
by fixing upon him, as being a wiser person than myself, 
I should refute the Oracle. When I examined this man, 
who was one of our greatest politicians, and whose name, 
I know, is a sufficient recommendation ; I found that all 
the world looked upon him as a wise man, and that he 
had the like thoughts of himself, but in effect was not 
such. After this discovery, I made it my business to 
convince him, that he was not the man he took himself to 
be. Now this was the occasion which rendered me odious 
to this man, and to all those who assisted at that inter- 
view. 

When I parted with him, I reasoned within myself, and 
said: I am wiser than this man. It is possible, that nei- 
ther he nor I know anything that is good or valuable : but 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



38-3 



still there is this difference; he is possessed with an opinion 
of his own knowledge, though at the same time he knows 
nothing ; hut I, as I know nothing, so I pretend to know 
as little. So that upon this account, I thought myself a 
little wiser than he, because I did not think that I knew 
what I did not know. 

After that I visited another who passes with some for a wiser 
man than the former ; but found him in the same circum- 
stances, and by that discovery gained new enemies. However, 
this did not discourage me. I continued to make the same 
experiment upon others. I was sensible that by so doing, 
I drew hatred upon myself, which gave me some trouble, 
because I dreaded the consequences. But I was convinced 
that I was bound to prefer the voice of God to all other 
considerations, and to apply myself to the most reputable 
men, in order to find out its true meaning. And now 
that, 0 Athenians, I must tell you the truth, the whole 
result of my inquiry was this : all those who passed for 
the wisest men, appeared to me to be infinitely less dis- 
posed to wisdom, than those who were not so esteemed. 

To continue the account of my adventures, in order to 
refute the Oracle : having visited all the great statesmen, 
I addressed myself to the poets, both tragedians, ditby- 
rambicks* and others ; I made no question, but I should 
find myself far more ignorant than they. I took up some 
of their most elaborate performances, and put the question 
to them, what was their meaning, what plot or design they 
carried on in these pieces ; as if I meant to be instructed. 
Indeed, Athenians, I am ashamed to ell you the truth : 
but after all, since I must do so, there was not one man of 
the whole company that was not better able to discourse 
of, and assign reasons for the poems, than their respective 
authors.- Thus in a little time, I discovered that poets 
do not carry on their work by the measures of wisdom, 
but by a sort of enthusiasm, and by certain impulses of Na- 
ture, like prophets and diviners who speak of a great many 

* The poets, who compiled hymns to the honour of Bacchus, were 
so called. These dithyrambs were full of a sublime rage, and con- 
sisted of bold and new-coined words. And accordingly, in order to 
be successful in compiling them, there was a necessity of being trans- 
ported with fury and enthusiasm. See our remarks upon the 2nd 
Ode of the 4th book of Horace. 

2 L 



386 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



fine things which they do not understand. The poets 
seemed to me to be cast in the same mould ; and at the 
same time, I perceived, that by reason of their poetry, they 
looked upon themselves as the wisest of men, and admira- 
bly well versed in all other things, that have no relation to 
their pursuits, and which they do not at all understand. 
Then I turned my back upon them, being convinced that 
I was above them, for the same reason that entitled me to 
a preference before the great politicians. 

Having done with the poets, to conclude my inquiry, 
I addressed myself to the tradesmen. When I accosted 
them, I was fully convinced, that I understood nothing 
belonging to their profession, and that I should find them 
to be men of clear understandings and ready parts : 
and indeed, I was not deceived. They knew all that I 
was ignorant of, and upon that score were infinitely 
wiser than I. But after all, 0 Athenians, the wisest 
among them seemed to fall into a similar error to that of 
the poets. * For every man of them presumed so far upon 
his success in the way of his business, that he fancied 
himself admirably well skilled in greater matters : and 
this extravagant fancy alone obscured their other com- 
mendable qualities. 

Then I put the question to myself, arguing on the 
behalf of the Oracle ; whether I should rather choose to 
continue such as I was, without either the knowledge of 
that sort of men, or their ignorance ; or to be entitled to 
both, and reduced to the same class as they ? I answered, 
both for myself and for the Oracle, that it was infinitely 
preferable to continue as I was. This, sirs, is the source 
of that dangerous and mortal enmity, which raised all the 
calumnies I am now charged with, and denominated me 
the Wise. For all who hear me, believe that I know all 
things ; and by virtue of that knowledge, am enabled to 
discover and expose the ignorance of others. But I am of 
opinion that there is none truly wise but God himself ; 
and that the Oracle meant so, in giving us to know, that 
the utmost extent of human wisdom is no great matter ; 
or rather, that it is just nothing. And as for the Oracle's 

* This presumption of the Athenian tradesmen, is a sufficient 
evidence of the spirit of the people of Athens. They loved to 
meddle with, and judge of every thing*, 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



mentioning- Socrates, doubtless my name was only pro- 
posed as an instance ; signifying to all men, that the 
wisest among them, is he, who like Socrates, disclaims ail 
wisdom in himself. 

Having fixed upon this truth, I proposed to fortify 
the idea yet more, and to obey God, in carrying on 
my enquiry, not only among my own countrymen, but 
likewise among strangers ; in order to try if I could meet 
with any who were truly wise ; and if I found none, I 
proposed to act the part of an interpreter to the Oracle, 
and convince the world that they are strangers to wisdom. 
This my design does so engross both my time and 
thoughts, that I have not leisure either to meddle in 
public business, or to take care of my private affairs : 
and thus, by reason of that continual worship which I 
render to God, my circumstances are so narrow in the 
world.* 

Besides, a great many young men, who are de- 
scended from high families, and have time at command, 
do willingly follow me, and take so much pleasure in ob- 
serving the method in which I confute all other men, that 
they afterwards endeavour to imitate me in baffling those 
they engage with : and it is not to be doubted but that 
they meet with a plentiful harvest, by reason of the in- 
finite number of vain men, who fancy they know all 
things, though at the same time they know nothing, or 
at most but little. 

All those whom they convince of their ignorance, have 
their eyes upon me, and not upon them ; and proclaim, 
that there is one Socrates, a profligate and infamous 
wretch, who corrupts the youth : and if any one asks 
them what Socrates does, or what he teaches, they know 
nothing of the matter ; but to avoid being at a stand, 
they have recourse to those frivolous reproaches that are 
commonly cast upon philosophers, viz. that he penetrates 
into the heavens, and the bosom of the earth; that he 
believes in no God, and colours bad causes with a good 
countenance. For they dare not tell the truth, that So- 
crates is too hard for them, and exposes them for making 

* By the worship and service done to God, he means the pains 
he took in convincing the world that they have no wisdom, and that 
God alone is entitled to it. 



388 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



a show of knowing what they do not know. Thus it 
came to pass, that my ambitious, violent, and numerous 
enemies, supported by a mutual union, and backed by an 
irresistible eloquence, did a long while since suggest to 
you the calumnies they had forged against me ; and now 
have inveigled Melitus, Anytus, and Lycon. Melitus 
stands by the poets ; Anytus represents the politicians 
and tradesmen ; and Lycon appears for the orators. Thus 
you see I have reason to tell you in i,he beginning of 
my discourse, that I should look upon it as a miracle, if 
in so short a space, I could repel a calumny that has 
had so much time to take root, and fortify itself in your 
minds. 

This, Athenians, is the whole, and the naked truth. I 
conceal nothing from you, and I disguise as little : though 
at the same time I am not ignorant, that all my advances 
upon this score do but exasperate the wound. But even 
that, is sufficient evidence that I speak the truth, and 
point to the true source of those imputations. As often as 
you will take the pains to canvass them, whether now or 
at any other time, you will be fully convinced that it is so. 
And this, I consider a sufficient apology against my first 
accusers. 

I am now come to the latter, and shall endeavour to 
answer Melitus ; who, if the world would take his word 
for it, is a very honest man, and a passionate lover of his 
country. To draw up the indictment in form, as I did in 
answer to the first ; the purport of it is this : Socrates is 
guilty of unjust things. He corrupts the youth, by not 
believing the Gods of his country, and introducing new 
Deities. To examine each article apart : 

His plea is, that I am guilty of injustice, in corrupt- 
ing the youth. And I, on the other hand, allege that 
Melitus is a very unjust man, for arraigning men on pur- 
pose to make a show of taking much care of things that 
he never troubled his head with. This charge I am about 
to make good. I challenge you then, Melitus : tell me, 
is there nothing you mind so much as the promoting 
the good and integrity of young men, as far as is pos- 
sible ? 

Mel. No, surely there is nothing. 

Soc. But pray tell our judges, who it is that can render 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



389 



your youth better ? For it is not to be questioned, but that 
you can tell who it is, since you make that so much your 
business. In effect, since you have found out and im- 
peached the person that corrupts them, you ought to tell 

who is able to set them right. Pray speak You 

see,, Melitus, you are confounded, and know not what to 
answer. Does not this cover you with shame ? Is not 
this a convincing proof that you never regarded the edu- 
cation of youth ? But once more, who is it that is best 
able to improve youth ? 
Mel. The laws. 

Soc. That is not the thing, my friend. I ask you, who 
it is ? Who is the man ? For it is a plain case, that the 
chief thing that the man must be versed in, is the laws. 

Mel. I tell you, Socrates, that these judges are the men. 

Soc. How do you mean, Melitus ? What ! are these 
judges the only men able to in struct and improve 
youth ? 

Mel. Most certainly. 

Soc. But are all these judges able so to do ? or is it only 
a particular number of them ? 
Mel. All of them. 

Soc. You talk strangely : you have found out a great 
number of good preceptors for us. But pray, is the whole 
audience able likewise to better the youth, or not ? 

Mel. They are all able. 

Soc. And what do you say of the senators ? 

Mel. The senators can also do it. 

Soc. But, my dear Melitus, do those who harangue the 
public assemblies corrupt the youth ? or are they able in 
like manner to better them ? 

Mel. They are all likewise able. 

Soc. It will follow then, that all the Athenians are able 
to instruct the youth without me ; and that it is only I 
who corrupt them. Is not this what you mean ? 

Mel. It is so. 

Soc. I must needs admit, that by this means you con- 
vict me of a very great misfortune. However, pray go on 
and answer me : do you think, that horses are in the same 
condition ? Can all men make them better, and is it 
only one man that has the secret of spoiling them ? Or 
is not just the contrary the case, that is, that only one, 

2l2 



590 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



or a small number of men, know how to do it, and that 
the rest of mankind, when they attempt to improve them, 
only spoil them ? And is it not the same with all other 
animals ? Certainly it is : whether Anytus and you agree 
to it or not : for it would be an infinite happiness and 
advantage to youth, if there were only one man in the 
world who could corrupt them, and every one besides were 
able to redress their errors. But indeed, Melitus, you have 
shewn that the education of youth never much disquieted 
you ; and of this you now give sufficient proof to the world. 
However, pray Melitus, answer me to this point ; does a 
man benefit more by living with honest men, or with 
knaves ? Return me an answer, my friend, for I put no 
difficult question. Is it not true, that wicked men do 
always deteriorate the character of those who frequent their 
company, and that good men always improve and benefit 
those with whom they associate. 
Mel. Yes, doubtless. 

Soc. Is there any man, who would choose rather to 
be injured, than benefited by those he converses with ? 
Answer me, for the law enjoins you to do so. 

Mel. No: there is none. 

Soc. But now that you charge me with corrupting and 
debauching the youth, do you allege that I did it willingly 
and knowingly, or against my will ? 

Mel. Willingly and knowingly. 

Soc. How then, Melitus, does your wisdom, in the age 
tou are now of, so far surpass mine, that you know 
fery well that wicked men do always prejudice, and 
good men benefit those who frequent their company ; and 
yet that I should be so ignorant as not to know, that if I 
mislead any of my followers, I run the risk of being pre- 
judiced by them, and at the same time continue to draw 
that evil upon myself both willingly and knowingly ? In 
this point, Melitus, I do not believe you at all ; neither do 
I think that any man in the world can believe you. For 
one of these things must be true, namely, either that I do 
not corrupt the youth at all ; or, if I do, that it is against 
my will, and without my knowledge. Now, turn the case 
upon which of these two you will, it is plain that you are 
a calumniator. Put the case that I corrupt the youth 
against my will, the law does not arraign men for involun- 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRA1 



tary crimes. But it orders that such men as are guilty of 
them, should be taken aside, informed of them, and pri- 
vately reproved for their errors; for it is plain that if I 
am fully instructed, I shall cease to be guilty of what 
I have committed against my will. Now you have neither 
counselled me, nor instructed me ; but have arraigned me 
before a tribunal, which the law has provided for those 
who deserve punishment, and not for those who stand only 
in need of information and instruction. This is a con- 
vincing proof of what I before alleged, namely, that Meli- 
tus never burthened himself much with the thought of 
these things. 

But, after all, pray say how is it that I corrupt the 
youth. According to your information, it is by teaching 
them to disown the Gods acknowledged by their country, 
and to honour strange ones. Is not this your plea ? 

Mel. It is. 

Soc. Then, Melitus, I conjure you, in the name of all 
those Gods whose interest is now concerned, to explain 
your meaning more clearly, both to me and to our judges ; 
for I am at a loss to know, whether you allow that I teach 
the youth to believe in any Gods, and only turn their 
respect from the Gods of their own country, to foreign 
ones ; or whether you charge me with believing no God at 
all; or that, whilst shaking the belief of others, I am 
still persuaded that there are Gods ; so that atheism is 
not my crime. 

Mel. I charge you with acknowledging no God. 

Soc. You are a strange man ! How can you talk so ? 
What ! do not I believe as other men do, that the sun and 
moon are Gods ? * 

Meh Certainly, Athenians, he believes in no God ; for 
he says the sun is a stone, and the moon a piece of earth. 

Soc. My dear Melitus, you think you are speaking to 
Anaxagoras, and treat our judges very contemptuously, in 
thinking them so void of learning, as not to know that the 
books of Anaxagoras the Clazomenian, are stuffed with 
such stories. Besides, would the youth be at the trouble 

* Socrates threw in this ironical expression, in order to expose 
the ridiculousness of the religion of the Athenians, who looked upon 
the sun and moon as Gods, which are only the work of God's hands. 



392 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



of learning from me such things as are contained in the 
public books which are sold every day for a drachma in 
the orchestra? This would furnish them with a fair oppor- 
tunity of deriding Socrates, for attributing to himself such 
things as are not only none of his, but likewise absurd and 
extravagant. But pray tell me, do you allege that I own 
no God ? 

Mel. Yes, I do. 

Soc. You advance incredible things, my dear Melitus, 
and are not consistent with yourself. Suffer me to tell 
you, Athenians, that Melitus seems to me to be very 
insolent, and that he has laid this accusation out of 
a youthful presumption to insult over me : for he is 
come hither, as it were, to try me, in proposing a riddle, 
saying within himself, I will see if Socrates, who passes 
for so wise a man, will, be able to discern that I banter 
him, and advance contradictory things, or if I can de- 
ceive him and all the audience. In effect, his information 
presents us with a palpable contradiction : as if he had 
said, Socrates is guilty of injustice in owning Gods, and 
in owning; no Gods. That is the notion I have of it. I 
beg you would listen to me, and, pursuant to my first re- 
quest, would not be incensed against me for addressing 
you in my ordinary way of speaking. 

Answer me, Melitus ; is there any man in the wwld 
that believes that there are human things, and yet denies 
the being of men ? Pray answer, and no not make so 
much noise. Is there any man who believes that there are 
certain rules for managing of horses, and yet believes there 
is no such thing as a horse ? Is there any man that 
troubles himself with tunes for a flute, and yet believes 
that no man can play upon it ? If you will not answer for 
yourself, I will reply for you ? There is no such man. 
But pray answer me this point : is there any man that 
believes divine things, and yet denies the being of a 
God? 

Mel. No, certainly. 

Soc. What pains have I taken to wrest that word from 
you ! You acknowledge then, that I believe and teach tiie 
being of Deities. So that whether they be new or old, 
you still own that I believe in Deities. And to this pur- 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



393 



pose you swore in your information.* Now, if I believe 
that there are deities, I must necessarily suppose that there 
are Gods. Is it not so ? Yes, doubtless. I take your 
silence for consent. But do not we take these deities or 
demons, for Gods, or the children of Gods? Answer me. 
Mel. Yes, doubtless. 

Soc. And, by consequence, you acknowledge that I be- 
lieve there are dempns, and that these demons are Gods. 
You have now a fair proof of my allegation ; namely, that 
you proposed to me a riddle, in order to divert yourself to 
my cost, in alleging that I owned no gods, and yet believe 
there are demons. For if demons are children of God, 
or bastards, if you will ; since they are said to be born of 
Nymphs or other women :f Who is the man that admits 
the children of gods, and yet denies the being of the gods 
themselves ? This is as great an absurdity, as if one spoke 
of colts and eaglets, and yet denyed the being of horses or 
eagles. So that Melitus, it is plain, that you laid this 
accusation against me, in order to make trial of my parts; 
or else you must own that you have no lawful pretence for 
citing me before this tribunal. For you will never con- 

* These passages are more important than at first view they 
seem to be. Whoever believes that there are such creatures as the 
children of gods, believes that there are gods. The acknowledging 
of angels implies the belief of gods ; which is the thing that So- 
crates points to. These inferior gods are children and ministers of 
the supreme God, the God of gods. Now Socrates admitted an in- 
finite number of these subordinate beings, which he looked upon as 
a continued chain descending from the throne of God to the earth, 
and as the bonds of commerce between God and men, and the me- 
dium which unites heaven and earth. This notion of his might be 
taken from Homer's mysterious chain; or perhaps he had heard of 
Jacob's ladder, the top whereof reached to heaven, when the foot 
stood upon the earth; upon which the angels of God ascended and 
descended. Gen. 28. 1*2. 

f Socrates speaks thus in compliance with the opinion of the 
people, who believed the demons owed their being to the corre- 
spondence of the gods with their nymphs or women. Now upoi? 
this occasion, it was not his business to attack that error. It is 
certain, that Socrates was not of that opinion • for he had learnt of 
Pythagoras, that demons, or angels and heroes, that is, devout men 
and saints, are the sons of God, because they derive from him their 
being ; as light owes its original to a luminous body. And in his 
Timseus, speaking of the generation of angels, or demons, he says, 
"it is above the reach of human nature.'' 



394 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



vince any man who has one grain of sense, that the 
same man who believes there are such things as relate to 
the gods and demons, does yet believe that there are 
neither demons, nor gods, nor heroes. That is altogether 
impossible. But I need not enlarge my defences before 
you, Athenians : what I have already said will suffice to 
make it evident that I am not guilty of " unjust things," 
and that Melitus's charge is groundless. 

As for what I told you in the beginning, about drawing 
the hatred of the citizens upon me, you may rest satisfied 
that it is just so ; and that if I die, I owe my death, not 
to Melitus, nor to Anytus, but to that spirit of hatred and 
envy that reigns among the people, which has ruined so 
many honest men, and will still continue to bring others 
to the like fate. For it is not to be hoped that my death 
will conclude the tragedy. Were it so, my life would be 
but too well spent. 

But perhaps some will say^ are not you ashamed, So- 
crates, that you applied yourself to a study that now pnts 
you in danger of your life ? To this objection I will give 
you a satisfactory answer. Whoever is the man that puts 
it to me, I must tell him, that he is much mistaken, in be- 
lieving that a man of valour ought to regard the consider- 
ations of life or death. The only thing he ought to regard 
is, that his actions be just, and such as become an honest 
man. Otherwise it would follow from your proposition, 
that the demi-gods who died at the siege of Troy, were all 
of them imprudent, especially the son of Thetis, who was 
infinitely more careful to avoid shame than death ; inso- 
much that his mother seeing him impatient to kill Hector, 
accosted him, in these terms : " My son, if you revenge 
the death of Patroclus, by killing Hector, you will cer- 
tainly die yourself."* But her son was so little moved by 
her threats, and so much contemned death, that he was 
infinitely more afraid to live Like a coward, and not resent 
the death of his friends. " May I die immediately," (said 
he) /'provided I do but punish the murderer of Patroclus; 
provided I be not exposed to contempt, and accounted a 
useless burden to the earth." 

: Now what do yon think ? Does the valorous man stand 
* In the 2nd J-ook of the Iliads. 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



upon the consideration of danger or death? It is a cer- 
tain truth, Athenians, that every man who has chosen to 
himself an honourable post, or is put into it by his 
riors, ought to stand fast, fearlessly amidst all the dangers 
that surround him, without considering death, but b< □ f l- 
ing his whole care to what is more terrible, namely to avoid 
shame. 

So that I should be guilty of a monstrous crime, if, 
after the faithful services I have done, in exposing my life 
so often in the points I was preferred to by our generals, at 
Potidasa, Amphipolis, and Delium, I should now be so 
transported with the fear of death, or any other danger, 
as to abandon the post in which God has now placed me, 
by enjoining me to spend my life in the study of philo- 
sophy, and in examining myself and others. That indeed 
would be a criminal desertion, and would justly occasion 
the arraignment of me before this tribunal, as being a 
profligate man, that owns no gods, disobeys an oracle, fears 
death, and believes himself wise . For to fear death, is nothing 
else but to believe ourselves to be wise when we are not ; 
and to fancy that we know what we do not know. In 
effect no body knows death ; no one can tell but it may 
be the greatest benefit of mankind : and yet men are 
afraid of it, as if they knew certainly that it were the 
greatest of evils. Now, is it not a scandalous igno- 
rance, for men to fancy they know what they do not 
know ? 

For my part I differ in that point from all other men ; 
and if in any thing I seem more wise than they, it is in 
this, that as I do not know what passes in the regions 
below, so I do not pretend to know it. Ail that I know is 
this, that there is nothing more criminal or scandalous, 
than to be guilty of an unjust thing, and to disobey those 
who are better than ourselves, or placed above us, whether 
Gods or men. So that I shall never dread or endeavour 
to avoid those evils of which I am entirely ignorant, 
and which, for any thing I know, may really be good. 
But I shall only dread and avoid those evils which I cer- 
tainly know to be such, 

Now, after all the solicitations of Any t us, in repre 
senting to you the necessity of bringing me to a trial 
and now that I am upon it, that you cannot dispens- 



39(3 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



with my life, lest your sons who are already so much 
addicted to my doctrine should be entirely corrupted : 
supposing, I say, that after all these remonstrances, you 
should say to me, Socrates, we have no regard to the 
allegations of Anytus ; we dismiss and absolve you, but 
upon this condition, that you shall give over the pursuit of 
your philosophy; and in case you be found guilty of a re- 
lapse, you shall certainly die. If you tlx my absolution 
upon these terms : I answer you, Athenians, that I honour 
and love you, but that I will rather obey God than man ; 
and that while I live I will never abandon the exercise of 
philosophy, in admonishing you according to my usual 
custom, and addressing myself to every one I meet, in this 
manner : Since you are so honest a man, and a citizen of 
the most famous city in the world, equally renowned for 
wisdom and valour, are not you ashamed to make it your 
whole business to amass riches, and to purchase glory, 
credit, and honour ; and at the same time to slight the 
treasures of prudence, truth and wisdom, and not to 
think of improving your soul to the highest perfection it 
is capable of ? If any man denies this to be his case, and 
maintains, that he minds the concerns of his soul, I will 
not take his word for it, but will still interrogate and ex- 
amine him : if I find that he is not truly virtuous, but 
only makes a show of being such, I will make him ashamed 
of his ignorance, in preferring vile and perishing things 
to those which are infinitely more valuable, and which 
will never depart from us. 

In this fashion will I discourse the young and the old, 
the citizens and foreigners ; but above all, you citizens, 
for whom I am most concerned. For, be it known, that 
I am commissioned by God so to do ; and I am fully 
persuaded that your city never enjoyed so great an 
advantage, as this my continued service. All my busi- 
ness is to persuade you, both young and old, that you 
ought not to doat so much upon your body, your riches, 
and other things, but should love your souls. I ever 
tell you, that virtue does not flow from riches ; but 
on the contrary, that riches spring from virtue ; and that 
ail other advantages accruing to men, whether in public or 
private stations, take rise from the same fountain. 

If by speaking these things I corrupt the youth, then 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 397 

of necessity the poison must lie in those maxims : for if 
they allege that I advance any thing different from these, 
they either are mistaken, or impose upon you. After 
that, I have only to say, that whether you do as Anytus 
desires or not ; whether you dismiss me, or detain me ; 
I shall never act contrary to them, though I were to die 
for it a thousand times. Be not disturbed, Athenians, at 
what I have said, but vouchsafe me the favour of a pa- 
tient hearing : your patience will not be in vain, for I 
have several other things to acquaint you with, which may 
be of use to you. You may assure yourselves, that if you 
put me to death, who love your city so passionately, you 
will prejudice yourselves more than me. Neither Anytus 
nor Melitus can hurt me : it is impossible they should. 
For God does not permit that the better sort of men 
should be injured by those who are worse. All men may 
kill us, or put us to flight, or asail us with calumnies ; 
and doubtless Anytus and the rest look upon these 
things as great evils, but, for my part, I . am not of their 
opinion. In my mind, the greatest of all evils is the doing 
what Anytus does in persecuting an innocent person, and 
endeavouring to take away his life by flagrant injustice. 

So that upon this occasion, Athenians, it is not out of 
love to myself, but out of love to you, that I make this 
defence. Do not sin against God by your sentence, and 
prove unmindful of the present he has made you. For if 
you condemn me to death, you will not easily find 
another citizen, whom God has united to your city. For, 
God has appointed me to rouse and spur you up, and 
to be always among you : and upon my word you 
will scarce light on another that will perform the office 
as I have done. If you believe this, you will dismiss 
me. 

But perhaps, like men awakened when they have a 
mind to sleep, you will be uneasy, and reject my advice, 
and in compliance with Anytus' s passion, will condemn 
me upon very slight grounds. Let it be so. But then 
you will pass the remainder of your lives in a profound 
lethargy, unless God take a particular care of you, and 
send you another man to reprove you. 

But to show that it is God who united me to your 
citv, I present you with an infallible proof, viz. that 
2 M 



398 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



there is something more than human in my neglecting my 
own private affairs for so many years, and devoting myself 
wholly to your interest, by taking, you aside one after 
another, like a father, or an elder brother, and incessantly 
exhorting you to apply yourselves to virtue. 

Had I reaped any benefit or advantage by my exhor- 
tations, you might have something to say : but you see, 
my very accusers, who with so much impudence revile 
me, have not had the face to charge me with that, 
nor to offer the least evidence of my demanding any 
reward ; and besides, my poverty is an evidence for me 
that cannot lie. 

Some may think it strange that I should have bu- 
sied myself so much in giving advice privately, and 
yet had not the courage to appear in the conventions 
of the people to counsel and assist my country. The 
thing that hindered me from doing so, Athenians, was 
this familiar Spirit, this divine Voice, that you have often 
heard of, and which Melitus has endeavoured so much to 
ridicule. This Spirit has stood by me from my infancy: 
it is a Voice that does not speak but when it means to 
take me off from some resolution. It never presses me 
to undertake any thing, but it always thwarted me when I 
meant to meddle in affairs of state : for had I embarked in 
such matters, I had long before now been out of the world, 
and had neither benefitted you nor myself : pray be not 
disturbed if I speak my mind without disguise : Whoever 
offers frankly and generously to oppose the whole body of a 
people, whether you or others, and endeavours to prevent 
the commission of iniquity in the city ; will never escape 
with impunity. It is absolutely necessary that he who 
stands up for justice, should live a plain private life, and 
remote from public stations. This I will make goad, not 
by words, but by matter of fact ; upon which I know you 
lay much stress. 

Give ear to the relation of my adventures, and you will 
find that I am incapable of yielding to any man, in an 
unjust thing for fear of death, and that by reason of my 
not complying, I must unavoidably fall a sacrifice to in- 
justice. I am about to talk of things that indeed are dis- 
agreeable, but at the same time are very true, and such as 
have been transacted in your own councils. 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



399 



You know, Athenians, that I never hore any magistracy, 
but was only a senator.* Our Antiochian tribe was just 
come in their turn to the Prytanseum, when, contrary to 
all the laws, you at the same time resolved to indict the 
ten generals, for not taking up and interring the bodies 
of those who were killed or drowned in the sea-fight at the 
Isles of Arginusse :f and would not condescend to try 
them separately : a piece of injustice that you were after- 
wards sensible of, and regretted. Now I was the only 
senator, who upon that occasion dared to stand up and 
oppose the violation of the laws. I protested against 
your decree, and notwithstanding all your menaces and 
outcries, and the advances of the orators that were pre- 
paring an accusation against me, I chose rather to en- 
danger myself on the side of the law and justice, than to 
suffer myself to be frightened by chains, or death, into a 
tame compliance with such horrid iniquity. J 

This happened under the popular form of government : 
but after the establishment of Oligarchy, the thirty 
Tyrants § sent for me and fourteen more to the Thorns, || 
and ordered us to bring Leon from Salamina, in order to 
be put to death for by such orders they meant to cast 
the odium of their ill actions upon several persons. 
Upon this occasion I gave them to understand, not by 
words, but by deeds, that I made no account of death, and 
that my only care was to avoid the commission of impiety 
and injustice. Notwithstanding the greatness of these 
thirty Tyrants, all their power did not influence me to 
violate the law, and betray my conscience. 

Upon our departure from the Tholus, the other four 
went to Salamina, and brought off Leon ; and as for 

* The people of Athens were divided into tribes, and 50 men 
were chosen by turns cut of each, who governed 35 days ; and were 
called the Prytani, or senators. 

t This battle was fought by Callicratides the Lacedemonian 
general, against the ten Athenian generals, who obtained the 
victory. Vid. Zencph. lib. I. Hist or. Grcec. 

\ Xenophon gives the same testimony of Socrates. 

§ The 30 Tyrants were set up in the first year of the 34th Olymp. 
being the 64th or 65th of Socrates's age. 

|| The Tholus was a sort of clerk's office, where the Prytani dined, 
and the clerks sat. 

f In the 2nd year of the 39th Olymp. 



400 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



me, I retired to my house : and doubtless my disobe- 
dience had been punished by death, had not that form of 
government been soon after abolished. There are wit- 
nesses enough to vouch for the truth of all that I ad- 
vance. 

You see then, that the thing I always aimed at, whether 
in public or private, was never to go along with any man, 
no not with tyrants themselves, in an unjust thing. 

As for the young people, whom my accusers would 
have pass for my disciples, I affirm, that T never made 
a trade of teaching. Indeed, if any persons, whether 
young or old, were at any time desirous to see me and 
hear my principles, I never declined to gratify them : for 
as I do not speak for money, so I will not hold my peace 
for want of it. I am at all times equally free to the rich 
and the poor, and willing to give them all possible leisure 
for asking me questions ; or if any of them choose rather 
to hear me, I give them satisfaction by answering my own 
questions : Now if any of these be found either good or 
bad, I am neither to be praised nor blamed ; for I am not 
the author either of their good or bad qualities. I never 
engaged to teach them any thing, and in effect I never did 
teach them. If any of them boast that he ever heard 
from me privately, or was taught any thing besides what 
I avow publicly to the whole world, you may assure your- 
selves he does not speak the truth. 

Ye have now heard, Athenians, the reason why most 
people love to hear me, and converse so long with me, viz. 
that they take a singular pleasure in seeing those men baffled 
who pretend to be wise, and are not so. I have likewise 
told you, that I received my orders so to do from God 
himself, by oracles, dreams, and all other methods which 
the Deity makes use of to make known his pleasure to men. 

If I did not speak truth, you might easily convict me of 
a he: for had I debauched the minds of youth; of 
necessity those who are now old, and conscious of my 
having done so, would rise up and prosecute me ; or if 
they did not, to be sure their fathers, uncles, or brethren, 
would find it their duty to demand vengeance upon the 
corrupter of their sons, nephews, or brethren. Now, I see 
many of those here present, particularly Crito the father 
of this Critobulus, a man of the same city and age with 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



401 



myself; Lysanias the Spheciaii, father to this Eschines ; 
Antypho, a citizon of Cephisia, and father to Epigenea ; 
and several others whose brethren assist at this meeting, at 
Nicostratus, son to Zotidas, and brother to Theodotus. It 
is true Theodotus is dead, and so has no occasion for his 
brother's assistance. Besides these, I see Paralus, the son 
of Demodocus, and brother to Theages ; Adimantus, son 
to Aristo, and brother to Plato, who is now before you ; 
Aiantodorus, brother to Apollodorus : * and a great many 
more, of whom Melitus should have selected at least one or 
two for witnesses. 

If it was an oversight in him, there is yet time enough ; 
I allow him to do so now : let him name them. But you 
will find, Athenians, it is quite otherwise ; all these men, 
whose children, whose brethren, Melitus and Anytus allege 
I have debauched and entirely ruined ; these very men, I 
say, are all on my side. I do not offer to take shelter 
under those whom I have misled : perhaps they may be 
said to have reasons for defending me. But I put the case 
upon men advanced in years, and near relations to those 
young men. What other reason should move them to pro- 
tect me, but my innocence ? These men know that Meli- 
tus is a liar, and that I advance nothing but truth. Such, 
Athenians, are the arguments that may be urged in my de- 
fence : and the others, which I pass over in silence, are of 
the same weight and force. 

But perhaps there may be some among you, who calling 
to mind their being formerly arraigned in the same place 
where I now stand, will be incensed against me, upon the 
account, that when they were in much less danger, they 
made suppliant addresses to their judges ; and to move 
their compassion more effectually, presented their children, 
with their friends and relations, in this place ; whereas I 
have no recourse to such artifices, notwithstanding that in 
all probability I am encompassed with the greatest dangers. 
It is possible, I say, that the consideration of this differ- 

* This Apollodorus was likewise present. He was a man of a very 
weak head, but one that loved Socrates entirely. When Socrates 
was condemned and going to prison, he cried out, "That which 
afflicts me most, Socrates, is to see you die in innocence." Socrates 
stroking his head with his hand, smiled, and said, My friend, would 
you rather see me die in guilt." 

2 m 2 



402 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



ence may excite their anger against me, and move them to 
condemn me. 

I am unwilling to believe that there are any such here ; 
but if there be, the most reasonable excuse I can plead, is* 
this : I have relations as well as they. To use Homer's 
expression, cf I am neither sprung from oak nor stone, but 
am born like other men." I have three sons, the eldest of 
whom is yet young, and the other two are but infants : 
and yet I shall not bring them hither to get myself cleared 
upon their account. 

Now, what is the reason that I will not do it ? It is 
neither a proud stiffness of humour, nor any contempt of 
you ; and as for my fearing or not fearing death, that is 
another question : it is only with respect to your honour, 
and that of the whole city, that I decline it. For it is 
neither handsome nor creditable, either for you or me, to 
make use of such means at my years, and under such a 
reputation as I have : it is no matter whether it is merited 
or unmerited; since it is sufficient that by an opinion 
generally received, Socrates has the advantage of most men. 
If those who pass among you for men of an unconrmon 
rank, superior to the rest for wisdom, courage, or any 
other virtue, should stoop to such unaccountable base and 
mean actions, as if they were apprehensive of some great 
evil accruing to them upon your condemning them to die, 
and expected immortality by virtue of your absolution : if 
these men, I say, should be guilty of such meanness, they 
would affront the city extremely; for they would give 
strangers occasion to imagine, that the most virtuous men 
among the Athenians, those who are entitled to honours 
and dignities, by way of preference to all others; are 
nothing different from the lowest-spirited and most pusil- 
lanimous. Now this, Athenians, you ought to prevent; 
you that are possessed of some reputation and authority. 
And supposing that I designed to do any such thing, you 
should give me to understand that you would sooner con- 
demn one that means to excite your compassion by such 
tragical scenes, and by that means to expose your city to 
ridicule : than one who with tranquillity and repose, 
patiently awaits whatever sentence you shall be pleased to 
pronounce. 

But not to regard the city's glory, which is seusi- 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



403 



bly wounded by such indignities; justice itself forbids 
supplicating the judge, or extorting an absolution by 
requests. A judge ought to be persuaded and convinced. 
He is not placed upon the bench to oblige men by violating 
the laws, but to do justice pursuant to the laws. He is 
sworn so to do by an oath that ought to be inviolable. It 
is not in his power to favour whom he pleases : he is 
obliged to do justice. We ought not therefore to bring 
you into a custom of perjury ; and you ought to hinder 
those who attempt it : for both those who tempt you, and 
you who comply, do equally wound justice and religion, 
and both are involved in the guilt. 

Wherefore, Athenians, do not you expect that I will have 
recourse to such things as I take to be neither creditable, 
iust nor pious; especially upon this occasion, where I 
stand arraigned of impiety by Melitus. Should I move 
you by prayer, and force you to break your oath, that 
would be evidence that I taught you to believe no gods ; 
and thus in offering to justify myself, I should entangle 
myself in the very charge of my adversaries, and prove 
against myself that I believe in no gods. But I am very- 
far, Athenians, from being of that principle. I am more 
convinced of the being of a God, than my accusers are ; 
and am so well satisfied in the point, that I resign myself 
to you and to God, that you may judge as you think fit, 
both for yourselves and for me. 

[Socrates having spoken in this manner, the judges put it to 
the vote, and he was found guilty by thirty-three voices. 
After which Socrates again began to spea/c] 

I am not at all troubled, Athenians, at the sentence you 
have now pronounced. Several things keep me from being 
disturbed; especially one thing, viz. that I was fully pre- 
pared beforehand, and have met with nothing more than I 
expected : for I did not think to have come so near to an 
absolution, but expected to be cast by a greater majority of 
votes. Finding now that I am only condemned by thirty- 
three votes, I fancy I have escaped Melitus' s prosecution; 
and not only so, but I think it is evident, that if Anytus 
and Lyson had not joined in the accusation, he had lost his 
1,000 drachms, since he had not the fifth part of the 



404 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



votes on his side.* Meiitus then thinks I deserve death! 
and as for me, what punishment shall I allot to myself ? f 
You shall see plainly, Athenians, that I will choose 
what I deserve. Now what is it that I must condemn my- 
self to, for not concealing what good I have learnt in my 
life-time, and for slighting what others court very earnestly, 
I mean riches, care of domestic affairs, offices, dignities ; and 
for never embarking in a party, or engaging in any office, 
which things are commonly practised in this our city ? I 
always looked upon myself as a man of more honesty and 
goodness, than to preserve my life by such pitiful shifts. 
Besides, you know I never would engage in any profession 
that did not enable me at once to promote both your advantage 
and my own ; and that my only aim was, to be always in 
readiness to procure to each of you in private, the greatest 
of all good things, by persuading you not to set your 
mind upon your possessions, until you had taken care of 
yourselves in studying wisdom and perfection ; just as a 
city ought to be taken care of, before the things that be- 
long to it ; and in like manner, every other principal thing 
is entitled to a preference in our thoughts, before its 
appurtenances. 

After all these crimes, what is my demerit ? Doubtless, 
Athenians, if you proportion the reward to the merit, I 
deserve some considerable good. Now what is it that is 
suitable for a poor man that is your benefactor, and wants 
leisure and opportunity for exciting and exhorting you ? 
Nothing suits better with such a man, than to be enter- 

* An accuser was obliged to have one half of the votes, and a 
fifth part more, or else he was fined in 1,000 drachms, i. e. 100 crowns. 
Vide Theophrast. in his Book of Laws; and Demosthenes against 
Androtion. 

t To understand this, we must know, that when the criminal was 
found guilty, and the accuser demanded a sentence of death ; the 
law allowed the prisoner to condemn himself to one of three punish- 
ments, viz. perpetual imprisonment, a fine, or banishment. This pri- 
vilege was called viroriiiaaSai; and was first enacted on the behalf 
of the judges, that they might not scruple to pass sentence upon 
those, who by condemning themselves, owned their guilt. Socrates 
was caught in this snare; but Xenophon testifies that he did not 
condemn himself at all, and would not allow his friends to do it, be- 
cause it was in effect an acknowledgment of the crime. Only, in 
obedience to the laws, and in order to proclaim his innocence, 
instead of punishment, he demanded 3, reward worthy of himself. 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES 



-105 



tained in the Prytanaeum ; that is more due to him than 
to those of you that have brought off the trophies of vic- 
tory from the horse and chariot races in the Olympic 
games. For these victors purchase you a seeming hap- 
piness by then' victories: but as for me, I make you really 
happy by mine. Besides, they stand not in need of such 
a supply ; but I do. Injustice therefore you ought to ad- 
judge me a recompence worthy of myself. 

Perhaps you may again charge me with arrogance and 
self-conceit, in speaking thus to you, as you did when I 
spoke against the supplications and prayers of prisoners. 
But there is nothing of that in the case : pray hear 
me. 

It is one of my maxims, that knowingly and willingly, 
we ought not to do the least harm to any man. My time 
is so short that I cannot upon this occasion fully recom- 
mend and enforce it upon you. If the same law prevailed 
here that is observed elsewhere, enjoining that a trial upon 
life and death should last, not one, but several days, I am 
persuaded I could make you sensible of its importance. 
But how is it possible adequately to defend myself in so 
short a space of time. However, being convinced that I 
ought to injure no man, how should I behave towards my- 
self, if I owned myself worthy of punishment, and passed 
sentence against myself ? What ! shall I be afraid of the 
punishment adjudged by Melitus ; a punishment that I 
cannot positively say whether it is good or evil ; and at the 
same time choose another sort of punishment which I am 
certain is evil ? Shall I condemn myself to perpetual im- 
prisonment I "Why should I live always a slave to the 
eleven magistrates ? Shall it be a fine, and continuing in 
prison till I pay it ? That is just one, for I have nothing 
to pay it with. It remains then that I should choose 
banishment ; and perhaps you will confirm my choice. 
But indeed, Athenians, I must needs be much blinded by 
the love of life, if I did not perceive that, since you who 
are my fellow- citizens could not endure my conversation 
and principles, but were always so galled by them, that 
you were never at ease till you got rid of me, much more 
will others be unable to brook them. That would be a 
decent way of living for Socrates, at these years, to be ex- 



406 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



pelled Athens, and wander from city to city like a vaga- 
bond ! I am very well satisfied, that wherever I went 
the younger sort would listen to me just as they do here : 
But if I thwart them, they will solicit their fathers to 
expel me. 

But perhaps somebody will say : Why, Socrates, when 
you go from hence, cannot you hold your peace, and live 
quiet h ? I see plainly, that to persuade you to any thing, 
is a difficult task : for if I tell you that my silence would 
be disobedience to God, and upon that account I cannot 
hold my peace : * you will not believe me, you will look 
upon the whole story as a mysterious irony. And if on 
the other hand I acquaint you, that a man's greatest hap- 
piness consists in discoursing of virtue all the days of his 
life, and entertaining himself with all the other things you 
have heard me speak of, either in examining himself or 
others ; you will believe me yet less. However, it is just 
as I tell you, though you cannot believe it. But, after all, 
I am not accustomed to think myself worthy of amj 
punishment. Indeed, if I were rich, I would amerce my 
self in such a sum as I might be able to pay. But I am 
not in a condition, unless you would allow the fine to be 
proportioned to my indigency ; and so perhaps I might 
make shift to pay a mina of silver. f Indeed Plato, who 
is here present, and Crito, aaid Critobulus, and Apollodorus 
would have me stretch it to 30 minas, j which they will 
answer for : and accordingly I amerce myself in thirty 
minas, and I give you them for very creditable surety. 

[Socrates having amerced himself in obedience to the laws, 
the judges took the matter into consideration, and 
without any regard to the fine, condemned him to die. 
After the sentence was pronounced, Socrates began again 
thu$:~\ 

Indeed, Athenians, your impatience and precipitancy 
will draw upon you a great reproach, and give the envious 

* It were impossible in Socrates to disobey God, and conceal the 
truths he was obliged to reveal. What a noble example is this in a 
Pagan ! 

t 10 Crowns. X 300 Crowns. 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



407 



occasion to censure your city, for condemning that wise 
man, Socrates : for to heighten the scandal, they will call 
me wise, though I am not. Whereas, had you staid hut a 
short while, my death had come of it self, and thrown into 
your lap what you now demand. You see my age has run 
the most of its round, and draws very near to a conclu- 
sion. I do not make this address to all my judges, but 
only to those that voted my condemnation. Do you think 
that I had been condemned, if I had thought it my duty 
to try every means for procuring my absolution; and if so, 
do you think I had wanted persuasive and touching ex- 
pressions ? It is not such words that I have been wanting 
in, but in boldness, in impudence, and in a desire to 
gratify you, by telling you such stories as you like to hear. 
Doubtless you had been infinitely well pleased, to see me 
cry, groan, whine, and stoop to all the other mean shifts 
that are commonly made use of by prisoners at this bar. 
But upon this occasion, I did not think it my duty to 
stoop to any thing so base and scandalous ; and now that 
the sentence is past, I do not repent of avoiding the indig- 
nity, for I choose rather to die upon the defence I have 
now made, than to live by such prayers and supplications 
as you require. Neither civil nor military justice allows 
an honest man to save his life by base means. For in duels 
it happens often, that a man may easily save his life by 
throwing down his arms, and begging quarter of his 
enemy : and in like manner in all other dangers, a man 
that is capable of saying, or doing any thing, may hit up- 
on a thousand expedients for avoiding death. To escape 
dying, Athenians, is not the greatest difficulty. Shame 
falls in upon us more swiftly, and is much harder to avoid. 
And accordingly in this juncture, I, who am stiff and old, 
am only overtaken by the slowest of the two ; whereas my 
accusers, who are vigorous and strong, are attacked by the 
swiftest ; I mean, infamy. Thus am I about to be de- 
livered up to death by your orders, and they are surren- 
dered by the orders of truth to injustice and infamy. 
Thus things are as they should be, and our shares are 
equally and justly divided. 

In the next place I have a mind to foretel you, who 
have condemned me, what will be your fate ; for I am now 
just arrived at the point of time, that affords a man the 



408 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



steadiest thoughts, * and enables him to prophecy of things 
to come, I tell you then, that no sooner shall you have 
put me to death, than the vengeance of God shall pursue 
you with more cruelty than you have shown me.f By 
ridding yourselves of me, you design only to throw off 
the troublesome task of giving an account of your lives ; 
but I tell you beforehand, you shall not compass your 
end. 

A great number of persons will rise up and censure 
you. Though you perceived it not, it was my presence 
that has hitherto restrained them. But after my death, 
they will make you uneasy ; and forasmuch as they are 
younger than I am, will prove more troublesome, and 
harder to be got rid of. For if you fancy to yourselves, 
that putting me to death is an effectual way to restrain 
others, and prevent their upbraiding you, you are mis- 
taken. 

That way of ridding yourselves of your censors, is 
neither honest nor practicable. A better way, which is 
at once very easy and honest, is not to stop their mouths, 
but to amend your lives. So much for those who voted 
my condemnation. 

As for you, Athenians, who gave your votes for my 
acquittal, I would gladly discourse with you, whilst the 
head magistrates are busy, until I am carried to the place 
of execution : I beg therefore a short audience ; for while 
we have time, why may not we confer together. I mean 
to represent to you a thing that has recently happened to 
me, and give you to understand what it imports. It is a 
marvellous thing, my judges, (for in calling you my 
judges, I am not mistaken) that the divine law, which has 
advised me so often ; and upon the least occasion never 
failed to divert me from whatever I meant to pursue, 
that was unfit for me ; this law has not given me any 

* At the point of death men's thoughts are steadier, than in the 
career of life ; because at that time passion is dethroned and the 
soul begins to retrieve its liberty. This was Homer's opinion : and 
there is no difficulty in tracing a higher source for it, than that 
Tnet. 

t This prediction was fulfilled in a raging plague, that soon after 
jaid Athens desolate ; and all the misfortunes that overrun this un- 
just republic, and indeed all Greece ; were taken for a certain mark 

of divine vengeance. 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



409 



sign this day ; a day on which I have met with what most 
men take to be the greatest of evils : it did not discover 
itself to me, either in the morning when I came from my 
house,* or when I entered this hall, or when I began to 
speak. At other times it frequently interrupted me in my 
discourse ; but this day it has not thwarted me in any 
thing I designed, either to say or do. Now I am about to 
tell you what this means. It is very probable that what I 
am now to encounter is a very great good ; for certainly 
it is a mistake to look upon death as an evil. And for an 
evident proof of the contrary, let us consider, that, if I 
had not been about to meet with some good thing to-day, 
God, under whose care I am, would not have failed to 
acquaint me, pursuant to his usual custom. Let us 
fathom the depth of this matter, in order to demonstrate, 
that the belief of death being a good thing, is a well- 
grounded hope. 

One of these two things must be true ;f either death 
is a privation of thought, or it is the soul's passage from 
one place to another. If it be a privation of thought, 
and, as it were, a peaceful sleep undisturbed by dreams, 
then to die is great gain. After one night of such tranquillity, 
free from disturbance, care, or the least dream, I am 
confident, that if a man were to compare that night with 
all the other nights and days of his past life, and were to 
confess in conscience and in truth, how many nights or 
days of his whole life he had passed more happily than 
that one : I am confident, I say, that not only a private 
man, but the greatest king, would find so small a number, 

* For Socrates was not imprisoned till after his condemnation. 

+ By this dilemma, Socrates does not call into question the immor- 
tality of the soul, but points to the two opinions of philosophers, 
some of whom thought the soul died with the body ; and others, 
that the former survived the latter. Now he offers to prove that 
death is not ill in either of these opinions : for, says he, if the soul 
dies, it is annihilated, and consequently void of thought; and if it 
survives, we are happier after death than before. Some decry So- 
crates's ratiocination, in alleging a third state of the soul, where 
after death it stays to undergo the punishment due to its crimes. 
But that is a mere quibble; for Socrates speaks only of good men, 
who having obeyed God, may expect a blessed immortality : for he 
likewise taught, that the wicked suffer eternal punishment in the 
world to come; as we see in his Phedon; and he did not in 
the least pretend that wicked men had no occasion to fear death. 

2 N 



410 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



that it would he very easy to count them. Now if death 
does in any measure resemble such a night, then as I have 
just said to die is great gain. 

If death be a passage from this place to another, and 
the regions below are a place of rendezvous for those who 
lived here ; pray, my judges, what greater good can a 
man imagine ? For if a man quits his counterfeit judges 
here, for true ones in the regions below, who, they say, 
administer justice with so much equity, such as Minos, 
Rhadamanthus, iEacus, Triptolemus, and all the other 
demi-gods, who were so just in this life ; will not that be 
a happy change? At what rate, would not you purchase a 
conference with Musseus, Hesiod, and Homer ?* For my 
part, if such a thing were practicable, I would die a 
thousand times to enjoy so great a pleasure. What trans- 
ports of joy shall I encounter, when I meet Palamedes, 
Ajax the Telamonian, and all the other heroes of an- 
tiquity, who in this life were victims of injustice ! How 
agreeable will it be to put my adventures in the balance 
with theirs ! But the greatest and most valuable 
pleasure will consist in spending my time in put- 
ting questions and interrogatories to these great men, 
in order to strike out the distinction between the truly 
wise, and those who falsely fancy themselves to be such.f 
Who would not give all he has in this world for a con- 
ference with him, who led the numerous army against 
Troy, or with Ulysses, or Sisyphus, and a thou Band other 
men and women, whose conversation and discoveries 
would afford us inexpressible felicity ? These men are 
infinitely more happy than we, and invested with im- 
mortality. Upon which account, my judges, you ought 
to encounter death with steady hopes, as being persuaded 
of this certain truth, That an honest man needs to fear no 
evil, either in this, or the future life, and that the gods 
take care of all his concerns : for what has now happened 
to me, is so far from being the effect of chance that I 

* He ranks these three poets together, as being the authors of 
the pagan theology. 

t Socrates here speaks of the wisdom they were really possessed 
of, or fancied themselves to possess in this world; and does not at 
all imply that any in a blessed state are capable of believing them- 
selves wise, when they are not. 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



411 



am fully convinced, it is infinitely advantageous for me to 
die, and be rid of the encumbrances of this life. And for 
that reason, God, who regulates my conduct, did not 
thwart me to-day. So that I have no resentment against 
my accusers, or those who voted my condemnation ; not- 
withstanding that they meant to do me no kindness, but 
the contrary; which might afford me just ground of com- 
plaint. One thing I have to beg of them, which is this ; that 
when my children grow up, if they make them uneasy, as 
I did, that you would punish them severely.* But if 
you find that they prefer riches to virtue, and take them- 
selves to be somewhat, when in effect they are nothing ; 
pray be not wanting in checking and exposing them, 
for not minding those things which deserve all their 
care, and for believing themselves to be what they are 
not. But now, it is right we should all betake ourselves 
to our respective offices, you to live, and I to die. But 
whether you or I are going upon the better expedition, 
is known to none but God alone. f 

* Socrates is so well content to die for the sake of justice, that he 
desired his judges to treat his children in the same manner, if 
they proved so happy as to give them the same trouble that he 
did ; that is, if they made it their business to correct their injus- 
tice, idolatry, and all their other vices. 

t Socrates did not speak this out of ignorance, for he knew very 
well that the just were happier in their death, than the wicked in 
their life. But the people that had just condemned him, were not 
in a condition to relish that maxim ; upon which account, Socrates 
tells them, that God alone knew ; and accordingly God quickly gave 
them all to know the difference between the fate of Socrates, and 
that of his judges. The Athenians repented their putting to death 
an innocent person, and publicly lamented the loss of him, whom 
they had condemned by a public sentence. The schools and 
places of exercise were shut up ; Socrates's statue was erected, 
a chapel consecrated to his memory; and his accusers prosecuted. 
Melitus was torn in pieces, Anytus was expelled the Heraclea, 
where he sheltered himself, and all the abettors of the conspiracy 
were looked upon as cursed, and excommunicated, and reduced to 
such a depth of despair, that most of them laid violent hands on 
themselves. 



THE END. 



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